Daemonium
by Mei-Xue
Summary: [Modern A/U] A detective from the Seattle Police Department gets more than what she bargained for in the midst of investigating the murder a Funtom Corporation employee. Sebastian x OC x Ciel
1. Eyepatch and Jeeves

The sky was veiled by a dreary overcast as heavy droplets of rain splattered onto the windshield, the wiper blades screeching as they dragged against the wet glass. Water relentlessly pounded against the surface of the moving vehicle, the dull drumming resonating throughout the cabin, and drowning out the repetitive ticking of the signal light. The car turned into a long, stone paved driveway, lined with the towering bodies of barren trees which trailed towards an imposing brick front manor. As the tires continued down the drenched lane, a whistle came from the passenger seat.

"Someone's clearly got money," the passenger remarked as the car came to a gradual halt, his eyes looking on at the building in astonishment. "You mentioned this guy was royalty, or something?" he asked, turning to the woman behind the wheel.

"He's an earl," she corrected, her seatbelt pulling away from her slender frame. She reached for a folder which had been resting on the dashboard, her fingers quickly flipping through the documents within, making certain that everything had been accounted for. "He's also the president of Funtom Corporation." Greeted by silence, she turned to look at him, her fathomless grey eyes met with his apologetic smile. She let out sigh. "I'm going to assume that you didn't go through any of the material I sent you last night."

"I skimmed through it briefly," he said half defensively. "You know that I'm usually a hands-on kind of guy. I can't hover over a laptop reading all night; unlike you, I actually have a life outside of work."

She took a quiet breath, attempting to hide her mild annoyance. "Funtom Corporation is a multinational British toy and confectionary conglomerate, which is headquartered in central London," she explained as she smoothed a lock of silvery blonde hair behind her ear, her eyes refocusing on the documents in hand.

"What's he doing here, then?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she replied as she reached for the door handle. "From what I've read, they've recently established their North American office. Perhaps he's here to oversee the expansion." She cradled the documents to her chest as she exited the vehicle, lightly slamming the door behind her as she continued ahead.

Thunder roared through the skies as flashes of lightning flickered in the clouds, reflecting against the many windows of the manor. As she approached the building, her eyes began to focus on a second story window where the outline of a person could be seen staring out at her—she felt a chill run through her. Averting her eyes, she turned her focus to her partner as he joined her on the dismally grey steps which led to the front entrance.

"Since your so unprepared, I'm asking that you avoid saying anything that might be regrettable. I'm still traumatized from the time you mistook a man's young wife as his daughter," she said dryly.

He snorted. "In my defence, there was a nearly thirty year age gap between them. I can't be the only one who's made that mistake."

"Marcus…"

"I will be the epitome of discretion."

She eyed him warily before turning her focus to the ornate double doors, a strange sense of unease washing over her as her fingers hovered above the doorbell. Pushing past her hesitation, she pressed down on the button, drawing in a deep breath to compose herself. She waited in silence alongside her partner, passing off her discomfort as an effect of the storm.

After a short series of clicks, the doors swing open, and they were immediately in the presence of a tall, strikingly handsome man. He was starkly pale, with hair that framed his face in strands of carbon, and lips that wore the faintest hint of a smirk. A perfectly tailored, slim fitting black suit clad his lean frame, his hands covered by formal white gloves. Most noticeably, his garnet eyes, which bore into them with the same intensity as a cat: unblinking, and almost predatory.

"May I help you?" he asked, speaking with a very notable English accent. He had a self satisfied air about him—a sort of quiet smugness.

"Hello," she greeted. "I'm Detective Blanche Bennett from the Seattle Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective Marcus Chung." She produced her badge as proof of her claim, her partner following suit. "I believe we've previously spoken over the phone. We have an arranged meeting with the earl."

"We've been expecting you." He politely smiled, stepping aside to allow the detectives to enter. "I'm Sebastian Michaelis, the head butler of the Phantomhive household. A pleasure to make your acquaintance," he formally introduced. "May I take your coats?"

"No, thank you," she declined as she stepped into the home, skimming her surroundings as her partner entered alongside her. "We don't plan on staying long."

Marcus nodded in agreement. "Just a few questions. We won't take too much of his time."

"Right this way, then." Sebastian turned his back towards the pair as he began to cross the dark stone tile, making his way towards the curved staircase which had opened up into the foyer. He moved with a kind of otherworldly elegance, which seemed almost too flawless to be real.

As she motioned to follow him, her attention was captured by a slight tug at her sleeve. She turned to look at her partner, a wide grin breaking through his professional mask.

"He has a butler?" he silently mouthed, his brows raised incredulously. His expression immediately dropped as he was met with the woman's icy stare, replaced by a small pout. Watching as she began to make her ascent up the elaborate staircase, he trailed closely behind her.

"You'll have to forgive the state of the house. We are still in the midst of settling in, and I'm afraid it's not suitable to be entertaining guests quite yet," the butler stated as he reached the top of the stairs, his smooth voice bouncing off the high ceiling. He took a sharp turn, beginning to lead the detectives towards a set of mahogany double doors. "My master should be in his study."

She blinked at his statement, her eyes skimming through her surroundings. She wondered if this was the dry sense of humour that the British were notoriously known for; from what she could see, the home was immaculate. Turning back ahead, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes unexpectedly locked with the butler's penetrating stare. She stopped in her tracks as he stood before the entrance to the room, his hands resting on the brass door handles.

"Just through here." He pushed the doors open, ducking aside to let the detectives in first.

Dark shelves took up the entirety of the adjacent wall where a vast array of leather-bound spines were displayed, the gold stamped lettering boasting the names of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Thomas Hardy, and Oscar Wilde. A flood of dim natural light shon in through a large glass window located to the side of the spacious room, the rain pelting the glass relentlessly, creating ripples against the surface. Positioned at the centre of the room was a large wooden desk where the earl was seated, seemingly engrossed by a thick stack of paperwork.

"Our guests have arrived, my lord."

The earl lifted his gaze upon hearing his butler's voice, his rigid posture and stern expression giving little indication to his thoughts. He appeared to be in his early-twenties, with a boyish face, and a slender frame that was fitted in a midnight blue suit. His head was crowned by short cascades of slate hair, which swept over his brows like silken thread. A piercing oceanic eye stared out from his fair complexion, a leather eyepatch obscuring where his left eye should have been.

"You must be Detective Bennett," he said, motioning to stand. He extended an arm over his desk to greet her with a handshake. "My name is Ciel, Earl of Phantomhive. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise." Her eyes trailed down to his hand as she firmly grasped it, noticing his black nails, which seemed to discord from the rest of the earl's polished image. As she withdrew her hand, she gestures to Marcus. "This is my partner, Detective Chung."

"Nice to meet you," Marcus greeted, reaching forward to shake the earl's hand. He wore a stiff smile, as if to hide his discomfort over the formal introductions.

"Please have a seat." He gestured to the chairs which were arranged at the opposite end of his desk, waiting for his guests to be seated before he sat back down himself. "So tell me, what brings you here today?" he asked, glancing over at Sebastian as he bowed to excuse himself.

"As I'm sure you're aware, a little over a week ago, your regional vice president of finance had been reported missing." She slid her documents across his desk, her eyes following the butler as he took his leave. "His body was found three days following, washed up on Alki Beach."

The earl wordlessly picked up the folder, flipping it open; he didn't seem to flinch as he was met with the chilling picture of a body, bloated beyond recognition. "What happened to Mr. Cutler was an absolute tragedy. He was a valuable asset to our company, and I was saddened by the news of his untimely death," he said, peering at her from over the file. "However, that still doesn't tell me why you're here. From my understanding, his death had been ruled a suicide. Surely, the Seattle Police Department has other things to prioritize." There was the slightest trace of mockery in his tone, which could have easily gone unnoticed.

"The case has been reopened," Marcus stated, his arms folding over his chest. "We now have reason to believe that his death may be due to foul play."

"I see," Ciel murmured, nodding slowly as he quickly processed the news. "In that case, what can I do to help?"

"You can start by answering a few questions for us," she said as she crossed one leg over the other, her fingers intertwining over her raised knee. "Do you recall anything that might have indicated that Mr. Cutler was in trouble?" she asked. "A dispute within the workplace, or perhaps some trouble at home?"

The earl shook his head. "I can't say anything comes to mind. Mr. Cutler and I weren't particularly close, and we've only ever interacted on a professional level; even then, those were quite limited." As he spoke, his gaze suddenly fixed on something just past them.

"May I interest either of you in a cup of tea?"

They both jolted in their seats, an involuntary yelp leaving Marcus' throat as their heads whipped around to find the butler standing next to a serving trolley.

"Or perhaps coffee?" Sebastian cocked his head to the side.

"You scared the bejesus out of me," Marcus breathed, a hand clutching his chest.

"Forgive me, that was not my intention," he said apologetically, his smile betraying his amusement.

Her bewildered eyes darted between the servant and the trolley, her heart still in her throat. She was confused as to how he managed to enter the room so quietly. There was no sound of wheels rolling against the stone tile; no rattling of bone china; no footsteps.

"How did you do that?"

His smile seemed to widen as the question left her lips. "I beg your pardon?"

"The trolley," she clarified, though she was certain he knew exactly what she was referring to. "How did you get it in here without making any noise?"

"You appeared to be in the middle of a rather important discussion; I felt it was best not to distract you," he said, the smile remaining on his lips. "If I couldn't do that much, then what kind of butler would I be?"

"That doesn't answer my question," she said flatly. Her attention snapped back to the earl as he suddenly cleared his throat.

"Sebastian, these detectives are here because they suspect that foul play was involved in Mr. Cutler's death," he explained, watching as the butler began to pour the contents of a sterling hot water kettle into a china teapot.

"Is that so?" He turned over a miniature hourglass to time the tea as it steeped, the smell of Earl Grey beginning to lightly perfume the room. "Master, if I may be so bold, perhaps the detectives will find it useful to pay a visit to our corporate office. There's bound to be someone there who can shed a light on their investigation, and if not, Mr. Cutler's office has yet to be cleared of his effects; they may be able to find something that the police had overlooked the first time."

"That does seem to be the best course of action." He nodded in agreement, shifting his gaze back to the detectives. "I can arrange for Sebastian to take you through the building tomorrow; in addition to what was previously said, you'll also have access to the security room. I'd like to do my part in helping with your investigation."

She quietly studied the earl as he spoke, wearing a calm, contemplative expression. His willing cooperation would spare them the trouble of obtaining a warrant, which should have been a relief to her, but she couldn't shake herself of the increasing unease as she remained in their presence—the earl, and his butler. It felt as if the longer she spent sitting there, the more her body became aware that something wasn't quite right.

"We'd appreciate the help," Marcus said, looking to Blanche for confirmation. He raised an eyebrow in confusion as she failed to respond. "Right, Detective Bennett?"

Shaken from her thoughts, she blinked. "Yes," she replied swiftly, her eyes refocusing on the earl. "Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated." As she looked at him, she found herself unprepared for the smile that appeared on his lips.

"Shall we say tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"

—

"You okay, Bennett?"

Blanche snapped out of her thoughts, startled by the sound of her partner's voice. She looked at him as they sat across from each other at the diner, raising an eyebrow at his question. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've been staring at your soup for the past twenty minutes," Marcus remarked, taking a drink from his coffee mug. "Something on your mind?"

"I'm fine," she replied, absentmindedly stirring her soup. "It's just been an exceptionally busy day."

"Agreed," he said with a light chuckle, before a playful look entered his features. "Though, I never thought I'd see the day where you're the one griping over being busy. Who are you, and what have you done with my workaholic partner?"

Blanche huffed a laugh. "Believe me, I prefer to be busy," she said with a hint of amusement in her voice. Taking in a spoonful of her soup, she cringed, sliding the offending bowl to the side after realizing that she had allowed her food to cool to an unappetizing temperature. "I guess 'busy' wasn't the right word," she pondered aloud as she began to rack her brain for a proper adjective. "Today's just been…"

"Weird?" He grinned.

"Weird," she echoed, nodding. "Every single person we've interviewed today was weird to some degree."

Marcus laughed, folding his arms over his chest as he reclined in his seat. "It must be a full moon, or something."

"Like Mrs. Cutler—"

"Hold on." He lifted a finger to pause her mid-sentence, his brows furrowing. "You thought that the yoga enthused housewife was even worth mentioning?" he asked incredulously. "What about 'Eyepatch' and 'Jeeves'?"

"She puts a concerning amount of faith in the 'magical' properties of crystals," she said dryly. "Need I remind you that she suggested we carry red jasper to help us on the case."

"I'll try anything if it helps us get this case solved," he snorts, shaking his head from side to side. Running a hand through his hair, he disturbed the once orderly locks, pushing them casually to the side. "Speaking of which, I can come into work tomorrow if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary."

"Are you sure?" he asked, looking at her reluctantly. "I feel bad about leaving you to conduct the investigation alone, while I sit at home and scroll through dating apps."

"I'm more than capable of handling things on my own. Go and enjoy your day off."

Besides, what's the worst that could happen?


	2. Not Quite

"Good morning, Detective Bennett."

Blanche patiently stood in-line for the register, her attention drawn from her cellphone as the smooth timbre of a man's voice reached her ears, her shoulders tensing reflexively. The deep, soothing tone and the gliding vowels gave her a small inkling of the man's identity, her thoughts confirmed as her stern gaze locked with a pair of penetrative garnet eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Michaelis," she firmly greeted, her discomfort hidden behind her calm expression. She hadn't planned on being sociable for yet another hour, having left her home ahead of time to get her morning fix of caffeine before the start of the work day.

"I can see that you are without your partner," Sebastian remarked, a polite smile on his lips. "Will he be joining you later on?"

"He won't be," she said, her hands sliding into the pockets of her coat while simultaneously tucking her phone away. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, looking every bit like she'd rather be elsewhere. "Today is his day off."

"Is that so?" The corners of his lips raised ever so slightly. He almost seemed pleased by this news, but passively so. "In that case, do you mind if I join you? I consider it uncivilized to allow a lady to have her morning coffee alone."

Had Marcus been present, she imagined that he would have likely gawked at the old-fashioned nature of the butler's words, before uttering something along the lines of, _'is this guy for real?'_

"Not at all." Blanche smiled stiffly, her eyes betraying her reluctance.

Was there even a polite way for her to refuse?

She was annoyed with the awkward position she was in, but she knew that she had no one to blame but herself: out of the magnitude of coffee shops in this city—a city that is renowned for its coffee and fanatic coffee culture—she decided to go to the one that was within walking distance of the Funtom Corporation building.

A cheerful greeting brought her attention back to the register as a barista beckons her forward. Thankful for the brief distraction, she made her way to the counter, observing the overenthusiastic smile that was present on the woman's face as she came forward. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly feeling embarrassed by her ritualistic order of an overly sugary latte, she hesitated.

"Large black coffee, please," she said, opting for something she perceived to be less juvenile, much to her concealed displeasure.

Blanche produced her card and tapped it against the debit machine, giving the barista a quick glance as she did so. She noticed that the smile had remained on the woman's face, still burning with a keenness that seemed excessive, even from a customer service standpoint. Upon further examination, she then came to the realization that the barista's smile had never been directed at her, but rather, at someone just beyond.

 _Don't tell me…_

She turned to follow the woman's gaze, frowning as her eyes fell on Sebastian. She balked at her findings, beginning to scan the room for an alternative source, only to be met by a multitude of smiling faces. The man had been encircled by the intent stares of the scattered female patrons around the shop, each offering him varying degrees of flirtatious looks while he stood there, seemingly oblivious to it all.

 _Jesus Christ, she thought._

She uttered her thanks to the barista, before she proceeded to the end of the counter to wait for her coffee, her eyes curiously shifting back to the register. The barista made little effort to restrain her profuse giggling as she took the man's order, hanging off his every word as if it was the most interesting coffee order she had ever rung up. She blinked, turning away from the scene, her head shaking as she let out quiet exhalation of disbelief.

"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.

"What's unbelievable, Detective?"

Blanche's head jolted towards him as he approached her, tucking his wallet back into the inside breast pocket of his overcoat while wearing a knowing smile. Her jaw clenched as she felt heat rise to her face from embarrassment, taken aback by his ability to hear her from such a distance. She crossed her arms, her calm expression hiding her internal panic as she racked her brain for a proper response.

Her voice caught in her throat. "I'm sorry?"

"My apologies, Detective," he said, a near pitying look in his eyes. "I could have sworn I heard you say something, but I must be mistaken," he said, reaching for their coffee cups on the counter. "Please lead the way."

Blanche breathed a small sigh of relief as she turned away from him, walking towards an empty table by the storefront window. Her eyes gave him a subtle once-over as she pulled out a chair, shifting down to their drinks as he placed them on the table. After a moments pause, she realized he had been waiting on her to be seated.

"So tell me, how long have you been employed as the Phantomhive butler?" she asked as she sat down, the butler soon following. She nursed a deep-seated aversion for idle talk, but she would take it over awkward silences.

"Well over a century by now," he replied, watching in amusement as she gave him a blank stare. "A joke, detective." He smiled. "I've been at my master's side for quite a number of years."

 _Well, that's incredibly vague._

She held her cup to her lips, hiding her revulsion as she took a sip and was met with a bitter, burnt taste. "How long could that possibly be?" She raised an eyebrow, surprising herself with her own boldness.

"I was appointed as the butler of the Phantomhive estate when my master was only twelve years old." His eyes bore into her as he spoke, as if to study her. "I had also taken on the role as his guardian."

She swallowed, feeling a slight chill as she held his gaze. "You were his legal guardian?" she asked in confusion, her brows knitting together. "Then his parents…"

"Dead."

The word rolled off his tongue so easily, she nearly flinched. Being in law enforcement, Blanche was certainly no stranger to the word; death is a common theme in her day-to-day life, and she had long since been desensitized to it. Nevertheless, it felt foreign to hear someone who wasn't in her line of work speak of it with such ease, especially from someone who appeared to be so genteel. Most people use flowery language when referring to death, as an attempt to mask the dark nature of the subject; to make it more palatable to a society that has systematically avoided it.

She shifted in her seat, realizing she had been quiet for a few minutes. "I'm so sorry," she said, an underlying gentleness to her tone. "That must have been very hard on both of you.

His brows rose slightly, curiosity piqued. "Both of us?"

"It would be hard on any child to lose a parent, let alone both—there's no denying it." Glancing down as she spoke, she couldn't help but notice that he had yet to touch his coffee. "But you must have been a young man yourself. I can't imagine how tough it must have been to take on that kind of responsibility so early on."

He smirked. "That's certainly an interesting way to look at it, Detective."

—

The Funtom Corporation building was a proud monolith of concrete and lustrous glass; an architectural expression of simplicity and modern design. The weather—in typical Seattle fashion—was dreary, yet a few scant rays of sunlight poked through the encompassing grey clouds, and reflected off the structure's many windows.

Blanche trailed behind Sebastian as he pushed past the revolving doors, leading her across the granite lobby, and towards a row of elevators. As they approached, a set of chrome doors slid closed, carrying the next batch of employees to their designated floors.

"We'll get on the next one," he said, a hand reaching for the elevator button. "Shall we begin with Mr. Cutler's office?"

"Yes, let's start there," she replied, her hands tucked in her coat pockets to keep herself from fidgeting. After an awkward hour of making stiff conversation, and a painfully silent walk towards the building, she was simply looking forward to focusing on the investigation.

A sharp ding rang through the air, and the elevator doors glided open, Sebastian's arm extending over the entrance to keep them from closing; he waited for the detective to enter first, before stepping inside. As the doors closed, he produced a black keycard which depicted the Funtom Corporation logo, and tapped it against the display.

"This place is very secure," she remarked.

"When the building was being developed, my master's foremost priority was to ensure the security of his employees in the work place," he explained, pressing on the button to the appropriate floor, the elevator slightly shuddering before it began to rise. "All of our keycards are matched to the floors that they are authorized on, and contain a unique identifier. Furthermore, there is twenty-four hour surveillance throughout the building."

Blanche nodded thoughtfully as he spoke. It was now clear to her as to why the man's presence was necessary: without his assistance, she wouldn't even be able to get past the lobby. She slid her hands out of her pockets in favour of crossing her arms, her eyes moving to focus on the digital display where the floor numbers were increasing in quick succession. Turning up to the ceiling, she furrowed her eyebrows as the lights flickered.

A high-pitched metal screech ripped through the air as the elevator lurched to a sudden halt, the lights flickering once more before swallowing the entire cabin into complete darkness. After a brief moment, the light returned, flooding the entirety of the enclosed space. There was a stunned silence while the elevator remained still.

"You have got to be kidding me," Blanche muttered, her hand instinctively reaching to push the button for the next closest level, with the vain hope that she could will the elevator to release them onto the following floor. Frowning, she pulled out her phone, staring down at the screen for a few seconds before letting out a disgruntled sigh. "There's no reception."

"Well, this is an unfortunate turn of events," he said as his finger pressed the emergency button, which garnered no response. He was quite composed, despite the stressful situation. "I suggest you make yourself comfortable, Detective. We may be stuck here for a while."

Resigned to her fate, she let out another sigh, her eyes falling shut as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "How long do you think it could take?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"It's difficult to say," Sebastian said as he watched her. "The emergency button should have connected us to maintenance personnel, but with that not working, it certainly complicates things."

She could feel his eyes on her as her lids remained shut, her discomfort eclipsed by frustration. If she had been remotely spiritual, she would have blamed some karmic power for placing her in such an awkward situation: her punishment for rolling her eyes at her partner whenever he made reference to his favourite holiday action movie.

"Fortunately, Detective Chung had the day off today."

He lifted his brow. "Why is that, Detective?"

Blanche withdrew her hand from her face, her eyes drifting open. She was immediately met with his gaze. "Being stuck in an elevator is annoying enough, without the constant _Die Hard_ references." His light chuckle caught her off guard, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to raise.

"I can't say that I've ever seen that film."

"I'm honestly surprised," she said lightheartedly, raising an eyebrow at him. "I thought that every human being has been subjected to it for at least one holiday."

"Perhaps I'm simply not human."

The floor suddenly quaked beneath them, before the elevator began to steadily rise, passing each level as it made its way to their desired floor.

"Thank god."

"Well, not quite."


	3. The Boy

"And there's nothing else you can tell me?"

Daylight filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the boardroom, reflecting off the surface of the long sleek table where Blanche was seated across from a young receptionist. The detective tapped her pen rhythmically against the surface of her notepad, wearing a calm expression as she watched the woman anxiously wring her hands over her lap.

"I don't know what else to say," the receptionist insisted, visibly agitated from having to repeat herself. "I've told you everything I know."

Blanche absorbed her response with an unfailing patience, observing her slouched shoulders and the upward inflection of her speech. She could tell that the woman was nervous, but given her strong alibi, Blanche disregarded it as anxiety from being questioned for a police investigation; for some, it's an instinctual reaction to be anxious around an unknown authority. She had no intention of ending the interview as of yet, but it was beginning to look like she'd have little choice in the matter: the nuances of the receptionist's face and body language suggested that she was only a question away from completely shutting down, which might prove to be a hindrance if they should need her cooperation at a later point. She decided to quit while she was ahead.

She opened her mouth to speak, but paused when she noticed the woman's gaze fixing to the door with the hint of a blush on her cheeks. Confused, she turned to look, but found herself unsurprised when she saw Sebastian standing at the doorway—who else could elicit such a reaction?

"I've taken the liberty to bring Ms. Green some tea from the break room," he announced, entering the room with a white mug in hand. He wore a charming smile as he made his way towards the receptionist, who seemed unable to turn away. "Chamomile, for the nerves," he said, leaning down to place the mug in front of her.

"We were just finishing up," Blanche said flatly, unprepared for the sudden intrusion.

 _What is he doing?_

"Already?" he asked, his brows briefly raised as near predatory eyes remained fixed on the young woman.

"As I told the detective, there's nothing else I can tell you," she said, her voice wavering as she warily watched him. She inhaled deeply as he rested his hand on the surface of the table and leaned in, the colour on her cheeks deepening as the he inched closer and closer. Her lip quivered.

"So you hadn't noticed any unusual occurrences prior to Mr. Cutler's disappearance?" he prodded, his voice dipping low into an almost whisper. There was something about his tone that was so hypnotically soothing, yet also chilling. "Nothing at all?"

"Y-yes," she managed. "I mean n… I mean no."

Sebastian gave a low, throaty chuckle, causing the receptionist to visibly shiver. "Which is it?"

Blanche found herself shocked into muted disbelief as she watched the scene unravel before her, her jaw slacked. The receptionist looked completely captivated by him, drawn in like a moth to a flame; she had never seen anything like it. She moved a closed hand to her mouth, preparing to clear her throat in an attempt to draw their attention, when her focus then turned to the woman as she surprisingly began to speak.

"I-I think I might remember something," she stammered, her cheeks now a flaming crimson.

"Oh?" His smile grew.

"A couple weeks before he went missing, I saw him arguing with a woman in his office," she said softly, watching with bated breath as Sebastian continued to gradually decrease the space between them, stopping once he was mere inches from her face. A mouselike squeak left her lips.

Blanche was quick to speak, recognizing the opportunity. "Have you seen her before?"

"I haven't," she replied, her eyes remaining focused on the man. It was as though she was blissfully unaware of the detective's presence, despite having answered her.

"And it couldn't have been his wife?"

She shook her head. "I've met his wife before, and it definitely wasn't her."

"Did you overhear what they were arguing about?" she continued, her brows knitted together, still in disbelief over the situation.

"No, but whatever it was, it must have been pretty serious. She was really mad when she left." Her eyes flickered with a strained realization, as if confused as to why she was even talking.

Sebastian drew back and straightened his posture, causing the receptionist to quietly gasp in protest. "I believe we are finished here," he announced, his sudden change in demeanour startling both women in the room. "Shall we review the security tapes, Detective?" he asked, turning to look at Blanche.

"Yes," she replied, drawing the word out slowly as she rose from her seat. Her eyes met with the dazed receptionist's as she collected her notepad, offering her a polite smile. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Green," she said, before spinning around and making her way towards the door with Sebastian in tow.

They left the young receptionist behind to collect herself.

She couldn't help but glance over at Sebastian as they entered the hallway, still trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. She was baffled as to how such a seemingly innocuous man was capable of controlling someone with so little effort, having rendered a stubbornly unforthcoming woman into mere putty in his hands. While he was undeniably handsome, there were plenty of genetically blessed people roaming the earth, and she doubted they all shared in his ability to puppeteer others; at least, to this extent. It was astonishing, but also moderately disturbing to her sensibilities.

As they reached the elevator, she spoke. "How did you do that?"

"Whatever do you mean, Detective?" His finger pushed down on the button as his head turned to her, a coy smile on his face.

"I've conducted enough interviews to know when things aren't going anywhere; that woman was too much of a nervous wreck to offer anything of use," she stated, her arms folding across her chest. "Yet you've managed to get her to open up without any difficulty. Are you some sort of mentalist?" she asked, eyeing the elevator cautiously as the doors splayed open, the events from earlier still thoroughly engrained into her memory. She reluctantly stepped inside.

"I assure you, Detective, I am nothing of the sort." He followed her into the elevator, his eyes locking with hers as the doors closed behind him—isolating them.

She felt goosebumps raise on her arms as she was suddenly overwhelmed under the full force of his gaze, watching as his lips moved.

"You see, I am simply one hell of a butler."

—

Marcus' roaring laughter reverberated through the speakers of the car. "Why does all the interesting stuff happen on my one day off?"

"I'm glad you find my day so amusing," she said sarcastically, her eyes focused on the road.

"Alright, I can see you're not in the mood," he snickered through the line. "You seem more wound up than usual. Did you miss me that much?"

"Don't flatter yourself." Blanche rolled her eyes, her foot bearing down on the breaks as she approached a set of traffic lights. "It's hard for me to explain. There's something about that butler that makes me feel uneasy. When he looks at me, it feels like he's looking right into my soul, and I find it really unsettling." Based on the lack of response, she started to wonder if she was just overthinking things.

After a short pause, he broke the silence. "You feeling butterflies, Bennett?"

"I'm being serious!" Blanche snapped. She shot a quick look at the touch screen on the centre console, opting to scowl at his caller ID in lieu of his face. Her foot steadily released the brakes once the lights switched from red to green, the car continuing its drive down the rain soaked road.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," he teased. "I can understand his appeal. If anything, I'm just surprised that he's your type!"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." The iciness of her words could intimidate the most intrepid of men—but not Marcus.

"Joking aside," Marcus began, adopting a more serious tone. "I've always considered you fearless to a fault. You've stared down every kind of monster imaginable in an interrogation room, and when it comes time to make an arrest, you're usually the first one to leap in with the cuffs. Trust me when I say, that butler is the last person who should be intimidating you."

She paused for a moment, taken aback by the sincerity of his words. Unsure of what to say, she opted for something simple. "You're right."

"I know I'm right," he chuckled. "Did he at least get anything useful out of the receptionist?"

"Annoyingly, yes. I'll brief you on it tomorrow," she said as she drove down an inclining ramp which led to the underground parking lot of her condominium building. An audible sigh left her lips, signalling to her partner that the phone call would be ending shortly. "I'm going to let you go now. I just got home, and I'm looking forward to digging into this pho."

"Did you get it from that place I recommended?"

"Yes, the one on seventh ave," she confirmed.

"Attagirl," he said approvingly, before uttering a titter. "Try to get some sleep. We wouldn't want you keeping yourself up all night thinking about that but—"

She aggressively pushed down on the 'end call' button located on the steering wheel, exhaling deeply as she inched into the parking stall. Once parked, she collected her takeout bag from the passenger seat, glancing up at her rear view mirror as the reflection of a small dark figure darted past her car. She snapped her head around to peer out the back windshield, staring out into the empty view of concrete and fluorescent lighting.

There wasn't anything there.

The driver side door swings open, and Blanche emerges from the vehicle. Before she could mentally scold herself for her short bout of paranoia, a soft thud alerted her to the far end of the parking lot. Frozen in place, she wondered whether the sound was merely coming from the overhead pipes, until another thud—more prominent than the last—drew her away from her logic. Placing her bag onto the roof of her car, she emerged from the parking stall, her eyes scanning through the rows of automobiles which lined the outskirts of the large enclosed space.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice bouncing off the dense walls. Stepping forward, her eyes locked on the corner of the lot where another sound resonated from behind a parked SUV. "Is someone there?" Her tone took on a more firm and authoritative quality that was typically reserved for work.

As she drew nearer, a small figure emerged from the corner, her shoulders slightly loosening upon the realization that it was only a young boy. Blanche breathed a sigh of relief, though continued to eye the boy suspiciously. "Isn't it a school night? What are you doing sneaking around at this hour?" she asked, almost scoldingly.

"I became lost, and wandered in here by mistake," the boy explained, his English accent causing her to tense—she's had just about enough of that accent for one day. "May I please use your cellphone to call my guardian?" He looked to be in his preteens, but was surprisingly well-spoken, given his age.

Even more staggering, he was a kid without a cellphone.

"Yes, of course," she replied, a hand reaching into her pocket. Pulling out her phone, she began to punch in her password when she was suddenly met with a red battery icon on the screen. She drew in a deep breath, maintaining a calm expression as she internally simmered with annoyance.

 _It's just one of those days._

"My phone just died, so we'll have to run up to my unit to charge it," she said, moving to flash her badge as reassurance that there was no ill intent. "Don't worry, I'm a cop. I just don't want to leave you here."

"That would be fine." As he took a step forward, the fluorescent lamps lit up more of his features, revealing a black eyepatch that had been partially veiled under his wisps of grey hair; the sight of it made her feel a small twinge of sympathy. He began to follow her as she made her way towards the glass elevator enclosure.

Once unlocked, Blanche pushed open the door to the enclosure, allowing the boy to enter first. She quietly studied him as she followed him inside, a hand reaching to push on the elevator button. Donned in a pressed white shirt and a grey sweater vest, with the posture that could put a wooden plank to shame, Blanche wondered if he attended one of the private schools in the area. He certainly exudes the aura of a rich kid; at least she hoped so, since public school would definitely be unkind to a boy like this.

A glimmer of light caught her attention, and her gaze fell to where a ring sparkled on his left thumb. She quickly noticed his black fingernails, which were reminiscent of the earl's.

Come to think of it, there were many other similarities between him and the strange boy.

The chime of a bell draws her focus back to the elevator as the doors opened. They promptly boarded, and Blanche instinctively tapped her key fob against the sensor panel, before hitting the button to the appropriate floor.

"Do you have a name?" she asked stiffly, her arms crossing over her chest.

"Smile," he replied, though his serious expression made it difficult for her to decipher whether he was lying or being truthful. After all, the wealthy have been known to give their children rather eccentric names.

"Okay then, Smile," she began, raising her eyebrow at the peculiar boy, her eyes continuing to quietly study him. "Do you go to school in the area?"

"No."

She could already sense that he wasn't going to be very talkative.

The elevator opened up directly into the suite, and they were immediately met with a surplus of glass walls that snaked around the large open space, displaying a glittering panoramic view of the city. With a flip of a switch, the spacious great room was flooded with light, revealing polished sugar oak flooring, rich textiles, and sleek surfaces. The overall aesthetic of the interior was the embodiment of the detective's scrupulous nature, comprised of a minimalist colour palette, and a combination of mid-century furniture and contemporary artwork, meticulously placed to set a scene of comfort and modern luxury.

"This flat doesn't look like something that could be bought on a meagre law enforcement salary."

 _He doesn't hold back, does he?_

"You're not the only one with rich parents," Blanche retorted as she led him towards the kitchen. She picked up a white charging cable which had been resting on the stone countertop of the island, met with his puzzled stare as she glanced up at him. "Your ring." Her gaze lowered to his hand where a gorgeous blue stone sparkled intensely. "My initial thought was that it was a sapphire, given its colour; however, under the spot lighting, the stone is presenting a level of dispersion that is more commonly seen in diamonds," she explained, setting her phone down to charge undisturbed. "Blue diamonds are quite a bit more expensive than their white counterparts, especially one so vivid and clear; it isn't something the average kid would be seen with." She gauged his reaction, a hand gesturing towards the small row of upholstered barstools which lined the opposite side of the island. "Make yourself at home."

"I would have never expected a police officer to have such a random skill as diamond appraisal," Smile commented as he sat, watching as the detective began to fill a kettle with water from the sink.

"You'd be surprised at how often it came in handy," she said, moving to place the kettle down on the gas burner. "So, if you don't go to school in the area, what are you doing out at this hour? Don't you have a curfew?"

She would normally be suspicious, but the kid doesn't exactly fit the bill for a hoodlum looking to break into cars—not in that sweater vest.

"I was investigating something," he replied, his face stern.

She fought off the urge to chuckle. "Investigating?" she asked as she maintained a straight face, casually leaning against the island. "What exactly are you investigating?"

"A girl."

"A girl," she repeated, hiding her amusement behind a feigned contemplative expression. She could only assume that he was referring to a classroom crush. "I'm guessing that this is a girl from your school?"

"No," he said, his arms crossed as he rested them on the counter. "A girl who I suspect will become a nuisance to me."

The high-pitched whistle of the kettle began to fill her eardrums, interrupting her before she could ask Smile to elaborate. She peered over her shoulder, a thick geyser of steam forcefully erupting from the spout.

"What kind of tea do you drink?" Blanche motioned to turn to the stove, pausing mid-step as her head began to pound sharply. Distracted by the intense headache, she was unable to process his response as her clammy palm pressed firmly against her temple. She drew out a shaky breath, her vision growing bleary as the room began to spin.

She turned her head towards the boy, barely able to make out his hazy hand as he tugged his eyepatch loose, his eyes, mere blurs of colour, shifting from cerulean to blood red. Her knees buckled from under her and she fell backwards, her mind bracing herself for the impact when she was suddenly pulled into someone's strong hold, the intoxicating notes of saffron, amber, and frankincense overloading her senses. Her eyes drifted shut as she felt her consciousness slipping away.

"What trouble have you gotten yourself into, young master?"

—

A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted underneath the duvet, a hand unconsciously grasping at the sheets and tugging them closer to her chest. She rolled onto her side, allowing herself a moment to savour the peacefulness of the morning while wondering why she felt so tired, despite having slept so deeply. Her eyes opened.

Why _did_ she feel so tired?

She pushed herself to a sitting position and drew the sheets away from her frame, her legs swinging over the edge of the bed. Looking down, she realized that she had slept in her clothes from the previous day, her white button up shirt wrinkled as a result; she couldn't fathom how she allowed herself to do this.

She shook her head, reaching for her phone on the nightstand, a light crease forming between her brows as she found it absent from its usual spot: this was also unlike her. She began to mentally retrace her steps from the night before, trying to figure out where she may have left her phone. She vaguely remembered standing in the kitchen and plugging it in to charge, but the rest of the night was a complete blur; she couldn't even remember putting herself to bed.

She rose to her feet, beginning to make her way towards the door.

As she entered the kitchen, a dull buzz brought her attention to her cellphone which was sitting on the counter, the screen lit with a notification. She picked up the device, a hand tugging it free from the charging cable as she peered down at the screen, met with a text message from her partner.

 _Grabbing some coffee. Want anything?_

She unlocked her phone, beginning to type out a response when her eyes suddenly fell on the kettle on the stove; she never leaves the kettle on the stove. She then froze, a chill running through her body as the look of realization crosses her face.

The boy from last night. The boy from last night, whom she found in the parking lot. The boy from last night, who told her he was lost. The boy from last night, who asked for her phone to call his guardian—her phone, which was dead. The boy from last night, whom she took to her condo to wait on her phone to charge, and for whom she was preparing tea for—which is why her kettle was on the stove. The boy from last night, whose eyes turned a blood curdling red before everything had gone black.


	4. You Look Tired

The routine din of the precinct faded into white noise as Blanche immersed herself deep into her work, trying to keep her thoughts from wandering to the previous evening. After humouring her unease by searching her condominium, and spending the drive to work trying to make sense of it all, she came to the conclusion that the incident had been a result of stress and exhaustion; it was the only logical way she could explain it to herself.

It was a dream.

"How do you always manage to beat me here?" Marcus' high-spirited voice tore through her concentration, approaching her with hot beverages in hand.

"It takes me a lot less time to do my hair," Blanche replied dryly, a half smile forming on her lips as she continued to stare into the computer monitor. She caught sight of him through her peripheral vision as he came up beside her, the smell of coffee capturing her full attention. Her eyes lit up, eagerly accepting the drink as he extended it to her. "Thank you." She brought the cup to her lips, drawing in the welcomed combination of sugar and caffeine.

"It looks like you need it," Marcus commented, raising his eyebrow as he noticed the light bags under her eyes. "Don't take this the wrong way, Bennett, but you look rough."

"I didn't sleep very well last night," she said, glimpsing at the beginnings of a smirk as she turned her gaze back to her computer monitor. She had an inkling that Marcus had a witty remark queued regarding a certain butler, but she was thankful he held his tongue.

"Is that surveillance footage?" Marcus asked, wheeling a chair from a neighbouring desk and positioning it beside her, eyes focusing on the screen as he took a seat. He tried to seem enthused, but it was difficult to feign excitement over what was simply a sped up recording of a hallway.

She nodded. "I've been trying to find this mystery woman that our victim had been allegedly arguing with," she sighed. "The receptionist didn't give us a concrete time or date: only that it was a couple of weeks ago, so we'll have to sift through all of this footage."

While tedious, she was thankful that she would be continuing her search in the comfort of her own desk, rather than sitting alone in a security room with _that man_ looming over her, watching her every move. It was to her absolute relief when Sebastian had offered a copy of the surveillance footage to take back to the precinct, sparing her of any further awkwardness. It was almost as if he had sensed her discomfort.

"At least the picture's clear; that's usually half the battle," Marcus said, taking a drink of his coffee. Leaning forward in his seat, he watched the figure of a woman make her way into the frame, her back towards the camera as she stepped into an office. "Who's that?"

"That would be Avery Green, the receptionist," she responded as the woman emerged from the room shortly after, providing a full frontal view as she strode down the hallway.

Marcus exhales with a low whistle, earning a warning glance from his partner. "Are they still looking to fill Cutler's old position?" he grinned.

She elbowed him in the arm. "Honestly, Marcus," she chided, lowering her voice. "What if the Lieutenant heard you?"

"I don't think he could hate me any more than he already does," Marcus said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. "You should've seen the look he gave me on my way in this morning."

"I think you're just misunderstanding his gruffness." She leaned back on her chair.

"Thirty-one years, raised by stone faced, Chinese immigrants, and you don't think I know what 'gruff' is?" Marcus raised his eyebrow, glancing over at his partner in amusement. "Regardless, the Lieutenant knows I do my job, so it doesn't really matter to me if he isn't my biggest fan. I'm not everyone's cup of tea."

"You certainly weren't mine," she said bluntly. "You have no idea how close I was to requesting a transfer when we were initially assigned to each other." Her words caused her partner to jokingly clutch at his chest.

"What made you change your mind?" he chuckled.

"Quitting is a sign of weakness," she replied, Marcus snorting in response, amused by her predictable willfulness. "Fortunately, you later grew on me," she then added, taking another sip of her coffee. She lifted her gaze as the sharp ding of the elevator drew her attention from the computer screen, her face crossing with recognition as a tall, silver haired man stepped out from the sliding doors.

 _What is he doing here?_

"I'll be back," she said briskly, rising from her seat. Before Marcus had the chance to respond, she was already making her way over to the man, who waved as he saw her approaching.

"You're looking tired."

She wondered why people were so intent on telling her this today.

"Sterling," she acknowledged, tempering her surprise at his arrival. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you before I catch my flight," he replied with a broad smile, his hands buried into the pockets of his chinos. "I'm going away for a couple of weeks."

"You could've told me you were coming," she remarked, motioning for him to follow as she began to lead him through a hallway; she brought him into an unoccupied interrogation room where they could speak in private, away from the noise and chatter of the common area. "Are you going back to Kilimanjaro?" she inquired, her brow lifting. "Or will you be taking it easy this time, sailing in French Polynesia?"

"Vietnam, actually. A new cave system has been discovered in Hang Sơn Đoòng, and a friend of mine was able to fast track the permits for us to explore the newest sections," Sterling replied with avidity. Despite his excitement, his hand reached up to rub the back of his neck, the look of guilt entering his eyes. "Which is also part of the reason I came."

Blanche crossed her arms, giving him a knowing look as she moved to lean back against the desk that was positioned in the centre of the room. She waited for him to continue, but she already knew she wouldn't like what was to come; it was evident in his face.

"In order to secure our spots, we would have to leave right away," he explained, before a hopeful smile sprung from his lips. "With that said, how do you feel about attending a black tie charity event tomorrow evening?"

"Spending my entire evening socializing with disingenuous strangers—definitely at the top of my list for things to do," she replied, sarcasm laced into her words.

"Please?" He pursed his lips. "You wouldn't have to stay for very long. Your presence would only be as a formality."

"In other words, I'm expected to prance around the show ring with my pedigree."

He couldn't even disagree with her.

He huffed a sigh, watching his sister with pleading eyes. "You know that I wouldn't usually pester you with the charity circuit, but I've already promised our mother I'd make an appearance. In my absence, you're the next best thing."

"I take it the Honourable Judge Constantine Bennett and Mother Esquire are unable attend?" she asked, a hint of mocking in her tone.

"They're tied up with other obligations," he said, his expression beginning to soften as he looked at her. "You know, it might be nice for you to have dinner with them sometime. You can't be mad at Dad forever."

"I don't want to have this discussion," Blanche said sharply, her eyes falling shut in vexation. She gave herself a moment to collect herself, drawing in a slow, deep breath, not wanting to be dictated by her annoyance.

"Blanche…"

"I'll go to the charity event," she firmly spoke, her eyes meeting his as her lids drifted open. "But only because you leave me no choice." She watched his expression quickly light up, swallowing her defeat like a piece of broken glass.

"Thank you!" he chirped, a pleased grin spreading across his face. He pulled her into a tight hug, which she reluctantly returned. "I'll email you the details on my way to the airport."

She merely nodded, already regretting her decision. As they pulled away from each other, she eyed him curiously. "Sterling, what would you have done if I had said no?" For some reason, she felt compelled to ask.

He gave her an smug grin. "You wouldn't have."

—

"I'm headed out," Marcus announced, pushing his arms through the sleeves of his cognac leather jacket, his keys jingling in his hand. He eyed his partner with mild concern as she continued to stare at the monitor, with no indication on stopping. With a raised brow, he reached down to tap at a key on her keyboard, pausing the video. "You should go home too," he instructed.

"I'll wrap up in a few minutes," she responded, offering a tight lipped smile. "You go ahead without me."

He didn't seem fully convinced, but nodded anyway. "Well, be sure it's only a few minutes, and not a few hours," he said, his body moving towards the elevator. "Goodnight, Bennett."

"Goodnight, Marcus."

She waited for him to disappear behind the sliding steel doors before letting out a deep sigh, burying her face into her hands as she leaned her elbows against her desk. She fought off the urge to rub her strained eyes, knowing full well that doing so would result in smudged mascara and regret. After a moment of allowing her eyes to rest under the comforting shield of darkness that her fingertips had provided, she drew her head back to scan her surroundings. The faces around her had increasingly become less familiar, belonging to the officers and staff members of the evening shift.

Perhaps Marcus was right, and it really was time to go home.

She retrieved her cell phone from the top drawer of her desk, noticing an email from her brother as she checked her notifications, another sigh escaping her lips as she recalled the events from earlier that day. Prompting the email, she began to skim through the details of the upcoming affair. It was exactly what she would have expected for a black tie charity ball: formal dress code, lavished venue, free champagne, all hosted by—she blinked, wondering if her tired eyes were playing tricks on her.

"Funtom Corporation," she muttered under her breath, baffled by her unusual luck.

Seattle was far too big of city for such a coincidence to occur, yet here it was, practically mocking her.

As she stared blankly at the email, the sound of the opening elevator doors reaches her ears, followed by footsteps which purposefully approached her desk. "Did you forget something?" she asked casually, assuming it had been her partner. No one else could possibly be looking for her at this hour. "Or are you just making sure I'm actually leaving?"

"Good evening, Detective." Her shoulders tensed immediately upon hearing the familiar voice, her head slowly lifting.

Speaking of unusual luck...

"Hello, Mr. Michaelis," she said stiffly, tucking her cellphone into the pocket of her blazer as she motioned to stand.

He stood there with his arms wrapped around a black computer tower, a polite smile on his lips. "Detective Chung had called this morning requesting Mr. Cutler's work computer," he explained. "My apologies for delivering it at such a late hour."

Marcus had failed to mention this to her.

"It's fine," she replied, walking towards him. She extended her arms to retrieve the item from him. "Thank you for bringing it in."

As she drew closer, she could feel a tension beginning to build up in her chest, as if she was going against the natural instinct of self preservation by approaching him—a predator. Her eyes locked on his as her hands came in contact with the cool surface of the tower, staring hard into his monstrous red eyes. She swallowed, her heart lightly pounding against her chest. For a few brief seconds, the entirety of their surroundings melted away into nothingness, and it felt like they were completely isolated in the room, despite being in the presence of uniformed officers, detectives, and forensic analysts.

She finally understood what she had been feeling whenever he was in her company, obscured by her discomfort over his overwhelming presence and the awkward social encounters: deep down, she was afraid. Beyond that handsome face, and charming smile, he was _petrifying_.

"It's no trouble at all," he said, taking a step back once the item was in her possession. Despite his politeness, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes, almost as if he was aware of the feelings that she had kept hidden away behind her calm expression and stern gaze. "Is there anything else I can do for you in regards to the case?"

"No." She shook her head. "Detective Chung and I will be in touch if we need anything further."

"I will be on my way then."

A sense of relief washed over her as she watched him turn to leave, the feeling short lived as he paused in his steps.

"Forgive my forwardness, Detective, but you really should be getting more sleep," he said, peering at her from over his shoulder. There was a faint smirk on his lips. "You look rather tired."


	5. The Devil

A garden of chandeliers bloomed from the high ceiling like sparkling crystal dahlias, filling the event hall with warm lighting as the smooth melody of contemporary jazz played in the background. Outstanding flower arrangements burst from the centre of the many clothed tables that trailed along the sides of the ballroom, the whimsical bouquets comprised of ivory roses and powder blue hydrangeas. Servers in white blazers weaved through the array of colourful gowns and black suits that dotted the polished floor, bearing trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

It was apparent that a great deal of care was put into making sure that the event was nothing short of perfection.

Blanche's eyes displayed her mild discontent as she surveyed the glittering scene before her, idly holding onto a champagne flute. A hand rose to grip at her forearm, adopting a closed off position as she lingered around the outskirts of the crowd. She was finding herself already regretting her choice of attire, the body hugging mermaid shape which dramatically flared to the floor, paired with the vibrant red colour of the fabric, going against her every desire to remain inconspicuous. She would have preferred a more subdued look, but the lady at the store had insisted that the dress was perfect for her; that, in combination with the time restraint, and her strong aversion to shopping, caused her to reluctantly agree.

The air was filled with forced laughter and sugary talk: neither of which she had the stomach for. Her brother always had a much greater tolerance for participating in pointless socializing, his charming personality and the stories of his worldly travels making him a charismatic force that drew in the crowds. She, on the other hand, was far more reserved, almost to the point of unapproachability. Unlike her brother who seemed to relish in the obligatory hobnob, she found it exhausting.

She had hoped that the evening would pass by uneventfully and without the need for idle chitchat, but that hope was quickly shattered when she heard her name being called out from the crowd. She nearly winced, her eyes scanning the room until they focused on the face of a bearded gentleman, who gave her a look of friendly recognition as he turned away from his conversation. She let out a small breath before she began to make her way towards him, masking her disinclination behind a gentle smile.

"Hello, Mr. Henderson," she greeted. Turning her gaze to the man standing next to him, she felt her smile falter.

There, the earl stood, dressed in a navy blue tuxedo that distinguished him amongst the sea of black and white penguins. His entire person was shrouded in a heavy air of regality and refinement, which was only to be expected given his prestigious title.

Being that he is the one hosting the event, she knew his presence shouldn't have surprised her as much it did, yet she still found herself stunned by the sight of him. Out of all the people…

 _Well, at least it wasn't his butler._

"It's been a while since I've last seen you," Mr. Henderson remarked, recapturing her attention. "Is Sterling with you?" He looked around, attempting to catch a glimpse of her brother through the flocks of attendees.

"Just me, I'm afraid," she replied, uncrossing her arm as an attempt to take on a more sociable appearance. "Sterling had a prior commitment."

"What a shame. I would have liked to hear more on his ascent of Mount Everest."

"Perhaps the next time you see him, he'll talk about his most recent trip," she said, lifting her champagne glass to her lips. "He's currently cave exploring in Vietnam."

"If only I had that kind of energy when I was a young man," he chuckled, shaking his head good-naturedly. Turning to the earl, he gestured a hand to him. "Allow me to introduce you to our host, Earl Ciel Phantomhive," he said with a broad smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." There was a gleam in his eye as his hand reached out to shake hers, his words catching her off guard.

Her eyes locked with his as she firmly shook his hand, ignoring her discomfort as their palms made contact. They've definitely been acquainted, so she was confused as to why he was pretending otherwise; nevertheless, she decided to humour him. "I'm Blanche Bennett, pleased to meet you."

"How do you two know each other?" Ciel asked, his gaze shifting between the two of them. Despite his enthused expression, there was a bored look in his eye which indicated to her that he wasn't so much interested in the answer, as he was just trying to make pleasant conversation.

"Her father and I go way back." Mr. Henderson keenly grinned. "We've even attended Harvard together, but that was ages ago, long before either of you were born." His words were followed by the clinking of ice against glass as he took a drink of his scotch.

The earl looked as if he found some sort of amusement in his words. "Is that so?"

"Yes, and we were quite the mischievous rascals back in the day," he said, his eyes flooded with mirth as he turned to look at Blanche. "But I'm sure being his daughter, you've heard all the stories."

She nodded awkwardly, merely responding with a strained smile. She has heard no such stories from her father's youth, but if he had indeed been a 'mischievous rascal', then it truly must have been ages ago. The version of her father that she knew was an intimidating and ruthless man, whose primary concern was his overweening pride and ambition.

Before Mr. Henderson could continue speaking, a musical voice beckoned him from amongst the crowd. He peered over his shoulder, chuckling as a vivacious woman waved at him from her circle of lively hens. "It seems my wife is getting rather impatient with me." He smiled apologetically, turning to look at Ciel. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Phantomhive," he said in parting, before shifting to Blanche. "And it was good to see you again. Please give your parents my regards."

"I'll be sure to do so," she replied, feeling almost guilty for lying as she watched the man return to his wife's side. After a moment, she turned back to the earl, wearing an inquisitive look. "So, why were you acting as if we've never met?"

"Given the setting, I didn't feel that the murder investigation was a very appropriate topic."

"That is a fair point," she said, taking a polite sip of her champagne. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

"You have me a little curious," he admitted. "You don't strike me as the sort to take part in this kind of thing." His tone made it difficult for her to discern if his words were meant to be scathing.

"I assure you, I'm usually not."

"Then why _are_ you here, Detective?" Ciel raised his eyebrow, looking somewhat smug as he asked. "Don't tell me you're here to investigate me," he said with a hint of mockery.

"It's nothing like that," she replied stiffly, handing her half-empty champagne glass to a waiter that had swept past. "We've long established that you and Mr. Michaelis were visiting abroad during the time of incident. I'm simply here as a guest."

"I see," he said with a thoughtful nod, his smug expression remained as he tilted his head slightly. "Are you enjoying yourself, then?"

Blanche shifted uncomfortably upon hearing his question. She typically would have responded with a polite lie, but she sensed that the earl had a sharp nose for such things. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused as her eyes caught a glint of something from behind him—her stomach dropped.

"Detective?"

Acting on instinct, Blanche lunged forward, tackling the earl to the floor. She heard him grunt as their bodies slammed against the cold tile, the sound of a singular gunshot piercing through the air, followed by a deafening silence. She looked down at him, their faces mirroring each others shocked expressions as she had him pinned to the floor.

"He's got a gun!" a woman shrieks.

The floor began to vibrate from underneath them as dozens of frightened patrons stampeded towards the exits, pushing and shoving their way through. She hovered above the earl to prevent him from being trampled, her head turning to stare out into the utter chaos. Scanning through the mass of terrified people that were running for their lives, her eyes locked on the figure of a man who stood a short distance away; unmoving, with gun in hand.

She made an effort to stand as the crowd began to dissipate, immediately freezing in place as a bullet hit the tile adjacent to Ciel's face, shattering like glass. She swore under her breath, managing to pull herself to her feet after a second attempt, the act made simple by the long slit that tore through the seam of her dress during the fall. Her gaze hardened as she turned towards the assailant, the barrel of the gun pointing at her face. She raised her hands.

He stared at her, his bloodshot eyes weighted down by heavy bags. The lower half of his face was covered by a thin sheet of stubble, which matched with his dark mess of disheveled hair. He had an overall unkempt appearance, his shirt partially untucked from his wrinkled trousers, his tie loosely hanging from his neck.

"Put down the gun down," she instructed, her voice calm yet firm. She watched him intently, able to read the mixture of distress and exhaustion written on his face.

"Get out of the way!" he spat, his hand trembling as he kept the gun pointed towards the detective. It was obvious by the awkward way he was holding the weapon that he had very limited experience with firearms.

"I can't do that." She slowly shook her head, her feet remaining firmly planted.

"You don't understand," he said with desperation in his voice, sweat dripping from his temples. "I'm trying to protect people!"

"I'm a police officer, so I can help you with that," she replied as she watched him stoically, maintaining her composure. Despite her outwardly appearance, her heart was pounding against her chest. "But in order to help you, I'm going to need you to put the gun down. Whatever it is, it isn't worth ruining your life over."

"I suggest you do as she says, Mr. Turner." Ciel came out from behind the detective, moving to stand at her side. "You don't want to do anything regrettable." As he came into view, the barrel of the gun immediately focused on him.

"Don't shoot," she quickly called out as the gun switched targets. "Just drop your weapon." She glared at Ciel from the corner of her eye, annoyed by the vulnerable position he had just put himself in; even more irritating, his hands weren't even up.

"He's not what he looks like," the man pressed. "You don't know what he is."

"And what's that?" she asked cautiously, raising an eyebrow at his words. She stole a quick glance at the earl.

"He's the devil!" his screams were manic, echoing throughout the empty ballroom. "He's the bloody fucking devil!"

 _Oh perfect, he has a gun, **and** he's crazy._

"He's clearly deranged," Ciel sighed.

"You're not helping," she muttered through gritted teeth, a crease forming between her brows. "And put your hands up," she quietly hissed.

Ciel huffed as he halfheartedly obliged, suddenly wearing an impatient look. "Sebastian," he called out, exasperated. "How much longer are you planning on standing there for?"

"Forgive me, my lord," Sebastian spoke, making his presence known from behind the assailant. His mouth was twisted into a sly smile. "I couldn't help but be amused by the strange predicament you've gotten yourself into."

She felt a familiar chill run down her spine. Had he been there this whole time?

Startled, the man whips his head around to face Sebastian. "H-how did you—"

Spotting the opportunity, Blanche rushed towards the man, ducking her head away from the centreline as her hand immediately gripped at the barrel of the gun. She turned the weapon towards him, while her free hand slams into his wrist, immediately disarming him. She took a hard step out with both hands on the gun, pointing it towards him as he turned to her in shock.

"Hands in the air."

—

Her breath clouded around her lips as she exhaled into the frigid evening air, staring out into the clutter of first responders, and eye witnesses. She caught sight of Marcus as he was in the midst of collecting a statement from across the parking lot, an empathetic look on his face as he spoke to a rattled young woman. She leaned against the back of a patrol car, her eyes falling shut as she reclined her head towards the clear night sky, allowing herself a momentary break from the bright flashes of red and blue.

 _What a long night._

She felt a light weight on her shoulders as she was suddenly encompassed by an almost comforting warmth, her nose flooding with the intoxicating scent of frankincense and amber; familiar, but she was unable to trace from where. Her lids drifted open to find Sebastian's garnet eyes staring back at her, a gentle smile on his lips as he draped a long black coat over her small frame. Her breath caught in her throat.

"That was quite the impressive show, Detective."

"It was nothing," she said dismissively, feeling her cheeks prickle with heat as her head turned away from him. She was too exhausted to be scared.

"On the contrary, you risked your own life to ensure my master's safety," Sebastian said as he looked upon her in amusement. "Your bravery shouldn't go without praise."

She kept her eyes averted as she pretended not to feel the force of his gaze, her arms crossing over her chest. "Thank you," she muttered quietly, unsure of how else to respond. From the direction she was facing, she spotted a pair of bloodshot eyes leering at her from the back of a squad car. "I heard someone mentioning that he use to be employed by Funtom Corporation."

"Yes, some years ago," he replied as he followed her gaze to the man. "He was our public relations director, and a very good one at that."

"What happened, then?" she asked, beginning to watch the butler from the corner of her eye. She felt a chill as he glanced back at her.

"There was a substantial decline in his work performance, and after countless unsuccessful attempts at intervention, a decision was made to terminate his employment," he said, sighing. "As a result, he developed this rather unhealthy obsession with my master. Unfortunately, this was not our first run-in with him, but we had never anticipated that he would take it this far."

"He must have really resented the earl," she pondered out loud, shifting her focus back to the squad car as a uniformed officer climbed into the driver's seat. "Especially to be referring to him as the devil."

"The devil," Sebastian scoffed, shaking his head disapprovingly. He almost seemed offended. "Honestly."


	6. Car Trouble

_Click_.

Blanche replayed the surveillance footage after winding the video back a minute, watching as a woman stormed out from an office in a very apparent fit of rage. She paused the video and began zooming in, trying to get an isolated shot of the subject while being mindful of the resolution decreasing as she did such. After a few seconds of tinkering with the magnification, she then spoke.

"Timestamp matches up with approximate timeline, and it definitely looks like she's leaving fresh from an argument," she stated, turning her head to look at her partner. "I think we've found her."

"Oh, she looks pissed," Marcus agreed, taking a generous bite out of his Granny Smith. He chewed furiously, wearing a look of uncertain recognition as he stared at the scowling face on the monitor. "I feel like I've seen her somewhere."

"You've seen her?" She raised an eyebrow in mild scepticism.

"I'm pretty sure." He leaned back, a finger contemplatively tapping on the armrest of his seat. "But _where_?" he muttered more to himself as he took another bite of his apple, washing it down with the dregs of his morning coffee.

"Maybe through one of your dating apps," she said sarcastically, her lips slightly curved into a half smile.

Marcus shook his head, either ignoring or oblivious to her rare joke; considering how often he tells her to 'lighten up', it was unusual that he didn't seem the slightest bit amused. "No, I really do think I've seen her before."

"Where could you have possibly seen her?" she asked, deciding to humour him.

"I'm not sure, but it's going to drive me crazy until…," he trailed off, his face lit with a sudden realization. He promptly stood and made his way to the side adjacent to her in the bullpen, where he began to purposefully sift through his desk.

"Marcus, what are you doing?" She spun her chair to face him, watching as he rummaged through the stacks of folders and paperwork which she had always scoldingly referred to as his 'organized chaos.'

"Last night, when I was collecting statements from that shooting you were involved in," he said, selecting a file from his desk seemingly at random, and flipping through its contents. "There was a—I found it!" he exclaimed, flashing his partner a triumphant smile. Abandoning his half-eaten apple, he trotted back to her side and slapped a witness statement onto her desk.

She picked up the sheet of paper, her eyes quickly reading through its contents. "Alessandra Graham," she read aloud, before giving him a puzzled look. "Are you trying to say that this woman is the one on the surveillance video?"

"Yes," he said, a finger pointing to the computer screen. "That's her—she's Alessandra Graham."

Her eyes drifted back and forth between the monitor and the statement, then to him. She was doubtful, but she didn't see the harm in at least looking into her partner's claim; for all she knew, it was a valid lead. Although, there was now a question that was burning in her mind…

"Marcus, you must have interviewed dozens of people last night. How do you even remember this woman?"

"She was the hottest one there," he said without an ounce of hesitation, a shameless grin on his face.

She stared at him with half-lidded eyes, immediately regretting her inquiry. "Why am I even surprised at this point?"

"And that body," he continued, seemingly unfazed by her words as his hands gestured the silhouette of a woman.

"Forget I asked."

"Detective Bennett." The lieutenant's firm and commanding voice interrupts their conversation, causing both detectives to snap readily to his attention.

He stood with an upright, assertive posture, his deep-set green eyes looking on at them with a hard sternness that made it difficult to determine whether he was content or displeased. His head of wiry chestnut hair was Brylcreemed into submission, neatly swept to the side with a few scant strands of silver throughout, paired with his clean shaven face, and his starched and pressed clothing.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" She immediately straightened in her seat.

"I'd like to see you in my office, please."

She gave him a firm nod. "Right away, sir."

"And Detective Chung." His tone was sharp as he turned to look at Marcus, his gaze sharper. "This isn't the first time we've had a discussion about your lack of professionalism. Exercise some discretion, please," he said flatly, before briskly walking away.

Marcus hunched as he sank back into his seat, a guilty grimace on his face as he watched the man's retreating figure. "Oops."

"I keep telling you to watch your mouth around here," she chided, motioning to stand. "I'll be right back. In the meantime, please pull up Ms. Graham's driver's license and see if we can get a match to the surveillance footage. If you can say without a doubt that she's our woman, then try to arrange for an interview."

"You got it," he said with a playful two-finger salute.

While sitting, he pushed off from her desk and loudly rolled towards his workstation, shouting a warning as he nearly crashed into a passing officer. She shook her head disapprovingly, then turned to leave.

She hid it well, but she found it intimidating to be summoned to the lieutenant's office. He was a humourless man, whose apathetic and taciturn exterior accompanied his resourcefully pragmatic disposition, his very presence demanding a great deal of respect and admiration from his subordinates—herself including. Prior to joining the police force and climbing its ranks, he had been a decorated military man who had served as a Marine Reconnaissance, having completed four tours of duty before retiring.

In Marcus' words, _'he was a certified badass.'_

The lieutenant was already standing by the door as she neared his office, gesturing for her to go inside. She took a deep breath to centre herself before stepping into the room, hearing the door shutting from behind as he followed her in. She paused in her steps as she spotted another person present, patiently seated in front of the desk.

"It's good to see you again, Detective Bennett." Though the earl's greeting was polite, she could detect an air of smugness to his tone.

"Hello, Earl," she managed amidst her surprise, unable to mask her confusion for why he was there. She couldn't help but wonder if she was in trouble, but she couldn't remember an instance from the pervious night where she had strayed from standard procedure.

The lieutenant brushed past her to approach his desk, snapping her from her stunned state. "Please have a seat, Detective. Lord Phantomhive was just telling me about the impressive way you handled things last night."

"I was just doing my job, sir," she said as she moved to sit next to the earl, glancing to him warily.

"Detective, if you had not acted when you did, there was no telling what that lunatic would have done," Ciel stated.

 _And yet, he put himself in the line of fire._

"Really, it was nothing."

She felt awkward being the focus of the conversation, which was only amplified by her uncertainty for being there. Judging by their overall tone, it was doubtful that she was there for reprimand, but if she wasn't in trouble, then what was this all about?

"No need to be humble, Bennett. You did a good job," the lieutenant firmly said, his hands clasping together on his desk. "And for that reason, you've been given a special assignment."

She glanced back and forth between the two men, her brows furrowing. "What sort of assignment?"

"It's short notice, but you've been requested to act as the police presence for an event tomorrow morning," her superior stated. "A ribbon cutting ceremony for the grand opening of Funtom's first flagship store."

"In light of what had happened yesterday evening, I would like to take every precaution to ensure the safety of those who will be attending," Ciel explained.

She listened with an attentive expression as a leg crossed over the other. While she was relieved that she wasn't in trouble, she was now confused as to why she was being given this assignment; this was a job that was typically given to uniformed officers, not detectives.

"This will be an undercover assignment. As such, please conceal your badge and firearm," the lieutenant continued, leaning forward to hold out a file to her. "This will provide you with all the necessary details."

"Is there a reason for this discretion?" She accepted the file, flipping through the documents within.

"The reason being that the incident from last night has already found its way to the press, and I don't want to trigger any unnecessary concern by having a visible police presence," the earl explained. "Which is why I ask that you try to blend in as a corporate employee."

Closing the folder, she focused her gaze on the lieutenant. "And my partner?"

"Will not be joining you," he stated. "You'll be on your own for this one."

She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed by this fact. On one hand, she wouldn't have to deal with Marcus' annoying commentary should the butler be present. But on the other hand, it might have been nice to have a familiar face accompanying her, especially with how uncomfortable the butler and his ward already made her feel.

"I understand, sir."

The earl suddenly rose to his feet, causing the other members in the room to turn to him. "With that, I won't take up any more of your time, Lieutenant," he said, offering his hand to shake as the other man stood. "I believe you had mentioned that all the appropriate forms are at the front desk?"

"Yes, Patty will take care of you," he replied, firmly shaking the earl's hand. "I hope everything goes smoothly tomorrow."

"Thank you," the earl said, then turned to Blanche as she got up from her seat. "See you in the morning, Detective." He extended his hand to her, a trace of amusement flickering across his face as their eyes locked.

She shook his hand, her jaw tensing from the contact. "See you," she replied, intentionally lagging behind as the lieutenant led them towards the door. Once the earl was gone and out of earshot, she turned to face her superior. "Out of all due respect, sir, wouldn't a couple of undercover uniforms be better suited for this kind of job?"

"While I don't disagree with you, it's completely out of my hands. The earl has specially requested that you take on this role, and the commissioner's made it very clear that he's a friend of the city," he stated as he looked down at her. "I don't want to waste the detective hours, but orders are orders, and this one's coming from the top."

"But why me, specifically?" she asked. "I'm no more or less qualified than anyone else here."

"If I were you, I'd consider it a compliment. You've clearly made a good impression on him, and I don't think I need to tell you that in this line of work, it's better to have well-connected acquaintances," he said as she grew silent. Raising an eyebrow at her, he then asked, "Detective Bennett, is there a reason for your reluctance on this assignment?"

"Reluctance?" She froze, her eyes briefly widened and she shook her head. "No, sir, there's no reluctance."

"Then what's the problem?" he asked.

"There's no problem either," she said. "I just—"

He raised a hand, interrupting her. "Take a seat," he ordered as he tilted his head towards his desk, waiting for her make her way back to her previous seat before he shut the door.

She mentally scolded herself for her inability to keep her mouth shut, lowering herself into the chair as she watched him return to his place behind his desk. She braced herself for a lecture.

"Detective Bennett, do you know why you were assigned to your partner?"

"I can't say that I do, sir," she replied, unsure as to where the conversation was heading.

At the time, she had assumed that being paired with Marcus was nothing more than a poor luck of the draw, but she hadn't given it much thought since.

"Detective Chung isn't a bad detective, he isn't even a bad guy, but he's an idiot," he said, his bluntness leaving her stunned. "He lacks discipline, respect, maturity, and to be honest, his work ethic is abhorrent. You, on the other hand, are one of my best detectives: you're hard-working, you have a good head on your shoulders, and in spite of who your partner is, you have an impressive solve rate. If I could man this place with a dozen more of you, I would."

She stood corrected: the lieutenant did not like Marcus.

Pushing past her shock, she hesitantly asked, "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"The point that I'm trying to make is that while I could've partnered you with the obvious choices like Rodriguez or Matthews, I paired you off with Chung because I knew that you'd keep him in check," he explained. "Anyone else would've either requested for a transfer, or they wouldn't have cared enough to keep him on track; you did neither, despite how much you hated the situation."

"Well, that's not necessarily—"

"Cut the crap, Bennett," he said flatly. "Don't think that I didn't see you pacing by my office the week you were assigned together. You know as well as I do that Chung couldn't have been any further from your ideal partner."

She averted her eyes and cleared her throat. "Okay, yeah," she muttered quietly in agreement.

"In this profession, you'll be faced with tasks that you won't want to do, and you technically wouldn't have to do, but you'll do them because of obligation," he stated. "And while I'm sure you have your reasons for your reluctance on this assignment, much like your partnership with Detective Chung, you're going to carry it through."

She debated about telling him that working with Marcus hadn't been nearly as unbearable as she had initially thought—that she had even grown to appreciate their partnership—but she knew that there was no sense in mentioning it when the lieutenant's mind was so clearly made up.

It took her a moment to process his words, but once she did, she gave a nod. "I understand, Lieutenant. Consider it done."

"I know I can count on you," he said, his focus then shifting to his laptop as if to signal the end of their conversation. "And Detective Bennett? This conversation stays between us."

"Yes, sir."

With the file in hand, she took to her feet and began to make the short journey out of his office and towards the bullpen. As she neared her workstation, she could spot Marcus at his own desk, setting his phone down on the receiver before turning to look at her with a curious expression.

"You were in there a while," he remarked. "What happened in there?"

"He just wanted to follow up from last night." Setting the file down, she plucked the witness statement from her desk to skim through a second time. "Did you manage to get an ID on our woman?"

"Yeah, it's definitely Alessandra Graham," Marcus replied, turning his computer screen towards her to show her the side by side comparison between the surveillance footage and the driver's license. "I just can't seem to get a hold of her. She isn't picking up from the number we have on file."

She produced her cellphone from her desk drawer and began to copy the address from the witness statement into her notes. "Weren't you saying that you were going to spend the rest of the day catching up on paperwork?"

"I was planning on it. Why?" He reclined in his seat, his fingers laced behind his head.

"I'm going to see if I can catch Ms. Graham at her house." She retrieved her jacket from the back of her chair. Slipping it on, she turned to Marcus and said, "Just a quick knock and announce."

He quickly straightened in his seat. "Do you want me to tag along?" he offered under the guise of being helpful, a silly grin on his face.

"Why, so you can spend the whole time gawking at her?" she dryly asked, giving him a knowing look. "No thank you."

"Are you sure?" he began, but before he could continue, she had already turned to leave.

"Goodbye, Marcus!" she called out, rolling her eyes.

The doors were just closing as she approached the elevator, but an arm had ejected between the small opening, causing the doors to bounce back. Relieved, she stepped inside and uttered her thanks, blinking as she found herself face to face with the earl.

"Earl," she awkwardly acknowledged, her hands folding together in front of her as she turned to face the door. "I didn't realize you were still here."

"It took me some time to get through those forms," he stated, glancing to her as she stood next to him.

Their brief exchange was followed by a silence which carried on for the remainder of the ride down, the uncomfortable situation only emphasized as they disembarked and proceeded to head in the same direction. They made their way through the front entrance and towards the parking lot, the detective walking at a slightly quicker pace while the earl calmly strode at her heels.

She could still hear his footsteps tailing her from behind as she approached her car, her eyes shifting to a gleaming black Mulsanne, which had been parked a couple of stalls away and running idle. The pull of a door reaches her ears as someone emerged from the driver's side, a soft sigh leaving her lips as she was met with Sebastian's charming smile.

"Ah, Detective Bennett," the butler greeted. "I didn't expect to see you today."

"Neither did I," she said through a polite smile, pressing down on her key fob to unlock her vehicle. As she reached the door, her head turned to the earl as he spoke.

"We will see you tomorrow, Detective Bennett," Ciel said, standing beside his car as his butler came around and opened the door for him.

"Yes." She cast one last glance over her shoulder as she stepped into her car, a sense of relief washing over her as she closed the door and fastened her seatbelt.

She had expected to hear the low rumbling of the engine as she pushed on the start button of the vehicle, but she was instead greeted by a continuous clicking sound. Frowning, she pushed the button again—same response. She stared blankly at the steering wheel, allowing the situation to sink in for a moment before she uttered a small curse, her head falling back against the headrest.

She thought about asking Marcus to take a look at her car, but she didn't feel like listening to the 'I told you so's' from the man who had given her ample warning on the model's starter motor issues prior to her purchasing it. Unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for the door handle, she decided that it would hurt her pride a lot less to sign out a department vehicle, especially since there would be no guarantee that her partner would be able to fix the issue on the spot.

"Experiencing a little car trouble, Detective?" A smug smirk wormed its way onto Ciel's face as he turned away from his conversation with his butler.

 _Of course they haven't left yet._

"No," she said plainly, shutting the door behind her and starting towards the precinct.

"Are you certain?" Sebastian asked, an eyebrow raised. "Judging by that clicking noise, I would say that there may be an issue with your starter motor—of course, I claim to be no expert."

"I'd be willing to give you a ride to wherever you need to go," Ciel offered as she walked away.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," she called out.

"My, what a nice car you drive, Detective," the earl remarked, turning his gaze towards her vehicle. "I'm willing to wager that in driving such a high end car to work, you receive quite a bit of heckling from your peers. Wouldn't you say, Sebastian?" His words stopped her in her tracks.

"Indeed, my lord. I can only imagine the amount of ridicule she would face if her colleagues were to discover that her car had broken down, leading her to use a department vehicle."

 _Oh god, they're right._

She weighed the options in her head as she kept her back to them, trying to figure out which one seemed less painful: the ridicule from her fellow officers, or an excruciatingly awkward car ride with the those two.

Taking a deep breath, she spun around to face them. "I suppose if it's no trouble."


	7. Campania

**Author's note:** This chapter contains some very light references to _Book of the Atlantic._

* * *

"I can call for a cab back to the precinct," she stated as she unbuckled her seatbelt and slid towards the door. "You really don't need to wait around for me. Besides, this could either take a few seconds, or a couple of hours."

"If that's the case, then why don't I stay until I can confirm that it won't be the former? It hardly makes sense to leave you here if this woman you're interviewing isn't even home," he stated plainly.

 _Because I'd like to avoid a repeat of that awkward car ride._

Sensing that the earl wouldn't be easily swayed, she nodded. "I suppose that sounds reasonable," she reluctantly agreed, seeing little point in arguing when he's made a valid point. "Thank you."

Reaching for the door handle, her hand quickly retracted as it already swung open, Sebastian standing at the opposite side. She blinked, her eyes shifting from the driver's seat and back to him, a look of confusion on her face as she slid out of the vehicle.

She had seen him at the wheel only a second ago.

"Is something wrong, Detective?" Sebastian asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Weren't you just…," she began as she eyed him cautiously, hesitating to continue at the risk of sounding strange. "Nothing," she then said, beginning to make her way towards the front steps of the house. As she reached the door, she glanced at him from over her shoulder, watching as he stood patiently by the running car.

There was still something about him...

"Alessandra Graham, S.P.D.," she announced as she knocked on the door. "I need to ask you a few questions."

Several seconds passed, and no answer. She leaned towards the door, her ears picking up the faint sound of music coming from the other side. It didn't make sense for anyone to leave music playing if no one would be home.

She knocked again, but this time, more forcefully. "S.P.D., open up," she called, but once again, no answer.

"Perhaps no one is home?"

She whipped around with a quiet gasp, her surprise tempering once she realized that it was only Sebastian standing behind her. He stared down at her with a coy smile while she let out a breath, her hand resting on the centre of her chest.

"You really should stop doing that," she said as she lifted a scolding finger, looking visibly annoyed.

"Doing what, Detective?" He cocked his head to the side, wearing an innocent expression.

"Sneaking up on people." She glared at him before turning back to the door. "It seems like common sense not to startle someone with a gun."

"I have every faith in your restraint, Detective," he said in an amused tone. "You don't strike me as one of those trigger-happy police officers we hear so much about on the news."

She huffed, her lips parted to speak, but she withheld as her eyes paused on the smear of red on the steel doorknob. A frown came to her lips—there it was, exigent circumstance.

"What have you found?" Sebastian asked, her position making him unable to see what she had been looking at.

"Blood," she stated, her jaw tensing as she stared at the door. She knew full well that she couldn't touch the doorknob without damaging a potential latent print, and that's not to say that the door wasn't already locked. "I need to get in."

He seemed strangely nonchalant by either statement. "That should be simple enough. Would you like me to—"

The sound of splintering wood erupted from the door as Blanche delivered a swift kick to the right of the doorknob, the act appearing to take the butler by surprise. She followed through with a second kick, forcing the deadbolt through the now-broken frame. Turning to him, she then spoke.

"Wait here," she instructed before stepping inside the house, glancing around cautiously as she did so. "S.P.D., anyone home?" she called out, but she could make out no response. All she could hear was the music in the background, drifting into her ears like a haunting siren's call, beckoning her forward.

 _'Moon river, wider than a mile…'_

"Alessandra Graham, this is the police," she called out as she entered the hallway, a hand hovering over her holstered firearm. The lack of response concerned her, but even more so, the thick metallic smell that lingered in the air; she knew what that smell was.

 _'I'm crossing you in style, someday…'_

She made note of what looked to be droplets of blood trailing along the carpet, the music growing clearer as she advanced further down the hall.

 _'A dream maker, my heart breaker…'_

Rounding a corner, she briefly paused before bolting into a bedroom, having seen a pair of legs laying limp on the floor. She was soon met with the sight of a woman's body, her silk camisole drenched in blood, her chest, riddled with puncture marks.

 _'Wherever you're goin'…'_

She knelt down beside the woman and immediately began to check her vitals, forcing herself to continue as her fingers came in contact with ice cold skin. Unable to find a pulse, she pulled out her phone, and connected herself to dispatch.

"This is unit eight-three-six at 4926 3rd Avenue. I have a possible D.O.A., I need an ambulance."

"Unit eight-three-six, emergency units will be dispatched. Please confirm that you're code four?"

"I'm code four for now." She rose to stand and disconnected the call.

Just as she was pocketing her phone, the sound of footsteps started from behind her. She quickly removed her gun from its holster and spun around, pointing the weapon towards the doorway—she lowered it as she was met with the earl and his butler.

"I told you to wait outside." She glared at Sebastian before her gaze soon directed towards Ciel. "And you," she said, "you're not suppose to be in here either."

"We heard a commotion, and thought you were in need of help," Ciel explained. Despite being in the presence of a body, he and his butler seemed quite reserved; most people would be squeamish, especially given all the blood.

 _Yes, because if I was in any kind danger, this tiny slip of a man and his butler are going to be able to…_

She let out a vexed sigh, a crease forming between her brows. "Fine," she said. "Just stay here with the body, and don't touch anything. I need to check if anyone else is on the property." Before they could respond, she had already swept past them, her gun pointed towards the ceiling.

After having cleared the spare bedroom, the bathroom, and a linen closet, she entered the kitchen, her eyes darting from wall to wall. She briefly paused by the fridge as she spotted a photograph of the victim pinned on the surface amongst a grocery list and a few 'save-the-dates', having noticed that half of the picture had been torn where another person was presumably depicted. She began to move towards the living room, but made note of the small collection of empty wine bottles on her way out, arranged in a cluster beside the sink.

With the living room assessed, she started to return to the master bedroom, pausing just before she reached the door as she overheard Sebastian quietly speak.

"It's a gruesome sight, isn't it? It almost gives you flashbacks of the _Campania_."

She entered the room while returning her gun to its holster. "What is that, some sort of movie?" she asked in a humourless voice as both men to turn their heads towards her.

"You can say that," Ciel replied as he glanced at Sebastian from the corner of his eye, almost glaring at him.

"A woman has died," she stated, raising an eyebrow at the pair. "Can we refrain from making movie references over her body? Great," she said dryly. It almost felt like she was scolding Marcus.

"My apologies, Detective. It shan't happen again," Sebastian said, his response polite but lacking a single ounce of sincerity.

She crouched beside the body and removed a pen from the inside pocket of her perfecto, using it to lift some of the victim's hair off of the floor. She quietly cursed at the sheer amount of blood that had been soaked into the carpet, having been hidden under the woman's thick dark locks. Hearing a man's voice call out from the front of the house, she quickly rose.

"A-Alessandra?"

Whispering another curse, she removed her badge from her belt and hurried out the doorway, catching a burly older man just as he appeared at the start of the hallway. Before he could react to her unexpected presence, she flashed her badge, staring up at the bewildered man with a hard gaze. "S.P.D.," she announced. "I need you to step out of the house."

"Why…w-why are the police in my daughter's house? Where is Alessandra?" he asked nervously.

"Sir, I need you to step out of the house," she reiterated firmly, ignoring his question.

"Where is my daughter?" he demanded, attempting to brush past the detective. The concern on his face intensified as she stepped off to the side, blocking him from passing. "Alessandra?" he frantically called from over her shoulder, staring out into the empty hallway with widened eyes. "Alessandra!"

"Sir, please step out of the house. Otherwise—"

He grabbed her arm and lowered himself with the practiced efficiency of a football player, slamming her against the wall. The detective grunted more from the shock rather than of any pain, feeling the drywall buckle from behind her. She recovered quickly, chasing the man as he made a dash towards the master bedroom. She winced as he turned the corner, preparing herself for the inevitable screaming, but was shocked to instead see the man flying back and crashing into the opposite wall.

"I'm afraid I can't let you go in there," Sebastian said as he emerged from the corridor, approaching the man as he haphazardly pulled himself from the hole that was left from the crash. He stood in front of the earl like an amused guard dog while his master stood in front of the bedroom, the door now closed.

"Did you just…," she mumbled.

This man was well beyond the butler's weight class, so she couldn't understand how he had managed to toss him aside like he was nothing more than a bag of flour. He didn't even look like he broke a sweat from the action.

Without a moment to spare, she turned to the disorientated man, removing her handcuffs from her belt. "You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer."

—

"M.E. puts the time of death between seven thirty and eight this morning. There's signs of blunt force trauma, but cause of death was likely multiple stab wounds to the chest," she stated as she stood with her arms crossed beside Marcus, watching as a forensic analyst crouched over the body to take another photo.

"I don't see any obvious signs of a struggle," Marcus commented as he stared down at the body. "She wasn't expecting it."

"There wasn't any indication of forced entry either, so it's likely that our victim knew the suspect," she said. "I hope you managed to clear some paperwork from your desk, because we're about to get a lot more."

"Oh goodie," he mumbled dryly, following his partner as she led him out of the room, eyeing the large opening in the wall which faced the doorway. "And the father?"

"I managed to question him before they took him in for booking, but the charges likely won't stick," she replied. "Apparently, he's been at work all day and only left to pick up his daughter for lunch, which is when he came here. I have a couple of uniforms verifying his statement now."

"Still, what was he thinking, assaulting a police officer?" He rolled his eyes.

"He wasn't," she stated as she stepped aside in the hallway, allowing for a member of forensics to pass her. "He's a worried parent, and in this case, rightfully worried. He was acting on instinct."

"You okay though?" Marcus then asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"I'm fine," she said with a nod. "I'm more annoyed that I didn't see it coming. I knew better than this."

"It happens to the best of us," he said, patting her shoulder. He raised his eyebrow as they entered the living room, nodding his head towards the corner. "What's he doing here, anyway?"

Looking across the room, she frowned as she spotted the earl speaking to the lieutenant. She wasn't sure what Ciel was telling him, but her boss seemed to be listening very intently, which made her nervous. He definitely won't be happy with her for accepting the car ride, especially since it put a couple of civilians right in the middle of a crime scene; though, she had no idea it would be a crime scene.

She mentally scolded herself for her lack of forethought, and for allowing her pride to get in the way of her decision making—it was a bad call.

"I'll explain later," she said, leaving Marcus behind to approach them. As she neared, the lieutenant turned his head to look at her.

"Detective Bennett, just the person I wanted to see."

She took a deep breath. "Lieutenant, please let me explain—"

"There's no need. Lord Phantomhive has told me everything," he stated.

"He has?" she asked, stiffening as she glanced warily at the earl.

"I was just telling Lieutenant Carter that we were beginning to hand deliver gifts to last night's guests when I saw the blood on the door. I wasn't sure who to call, but I'm thankful that you arrived so quickly."

"Right," she slowly said, confused as to why he was covering for her. Her attention shifted to the lieutenant as he spoke.

"Good work, Bennett," he praised in his usual gruff manner, before turning to the earl. "I'm going to need you to fill out a statement. Would you mind coming with me?"

"Not at all," Ciel said, following the man as he began to lead him away. He gave her a sly smile. "I'll see you in the morning, Detective."

She blinked in disbelief, watching him as he walked away. "See you."

—

The engine rumbled as Marcus' fingers pushed down on the start button of her car, the lights on the dashboard coming to life.

"Are you serious?"

"Seems to be running fine to me," he said as he scratched the back of head. "You said there was a clicking sound?"

"Yes," she sighed. "It wouldn't even start this morning."

"Well, you should probably still take it in to have it looked at. These kinds of problems don't just go away on their own," he said as he leaned back in the driver's seat. He suddenly gave her an amused smirk as a hand reached back to knock on the wire cage, which separated them from the back. "You still think it was worth paying the department all that money just to have this thing fitted with all the bells and whistles? Seems like a lot of trouble just so you can use it for work."

"You can't put a price on comfort," she said dryly, halfheartedly glaring at him. "Besides, I don't see you complaining. Especially during the summer when you made full use of the air conditioned seats."

"Spoken like a rich kid," he laughed. "But I can't say I don't appreciate the cold air blowing on my backside; though, I never thought it'd be something I'd ever think I needed."

She went silent as a random thought suddenly entered her mind, a long sigh escaping her lips as she stared out the windshield. Noticing her pause, Marcus spoke.

"You feeling okay?"

"Marcus, you're a movie buff," she stated, turning her head to look at him.

"Well, that's gross understatement," he snorts. "What's up, Bennett?"

"Have you ever heard of a movie called the _Campania_?"

"Doesn't ring a bell." He shook his head, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why?"

"No reason."


	8. Prickly

"Lawrence Graham," she announced as she strode into the interrogation room, the door shutting behind her with a light slam. "I understand that you're a plastics supplier for Funtom Corporation."

The man turned his head to look at her, a heavy crease between his brows; he looked a little worse for wear after having spent the night in a holding cell. "I normally go by Larry," he replied gruffly, eyeing the detective as she crossed the room and seated in the chair facing him. "And yes, I am—what is this about? My bail's been posted, so why am I still here?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding your daughter before we let you go," she said, crossing her arms and leaning forward on the table. She stared directly into his eyes, her expression stern and unrelenting. "I looked into your statement, and your alibi doesn't check out."

He suddenly looked annoyed. "What the hell are you talking about? I told you, I was at work."

"Here's the problem," she began. "I had my guys question every single one of your workers yesterday, and it seems that no one could recall seeing you that morning. Why would that be?"

"I went straight to my office and stayed there. I didn't stop to chat with anyone."

"You're the boss, Larry. You'd be a hard person to miss," she remarked, which only seemed to irritate him further.

"This is crazy," he harshly spat. "You're wasting your damn time. Instead of sitting here asking me all of these questions, you should be out there looking for the guy who killed my daughter!"

"Please answer the question," she firmly said, unaffected by his steadily raising voice. "There shouldn't be a reason to be defensive if you've got nothing to hide.

"I already told you, I was at work!" He glared at her. "And of course I'm being defensive. You're accusing me of killing my own daughter!"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want to know the facts," she stated. "And the fact is, you weren't at work when you said you would be. So I'm going to ask you, where were you between seven thirty and eight o'clock yesterday morning?"

He leaned over, seething. "I was at work."

Blanche watched at him for a moment before she motioned to stand, calmly walking towards the door and ignoring the man as he demanded to know when he would be released. She slammed the door behind her as she entered the hallway, then ducked into the observation room next door where Marcus was peering through the two-way mirror.

He turned to her as he took a healthy bite out of his submarine sandwich, before talking between a mouth full of meatball and bread. "Lieutenant says that unless he gives us something useful within the next ten minutes, we have to let him go. Now that he's made bail for the assault, we have nothing to hold him."

"Then we'll let him go," she said plainly as she leaned on the ledge, watching the man in the opposite room as he furiously shook his head and cursed. "In ten minutes."

He swallowed his food before speaking. "Okay, but I doubt he's going to say anything. He knows we can't keep him," he said, then took another bite of his sandwich. "Why are you still here? Aren't you suppose to be at that ribbon cutting ceremony?"

"Not for another hour and a half." She kept her eyes on the mirror, ignoring the fact that he was talking with his mouth full; she had scolded him in the past, but if he wants to eat like an animal, then she couldn't really stop him.

"You brought a change of clothes, right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her as he looked her up and down.

She blinked, her gaze turning to him before she glanced down at her outfit: a white button up shirt, black slacks, and a belt. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"You said you were going in incognito."

Well, she definitely didn't word it like that.

"And?"

"You look like a cop."

"I'm suppose to blend in as a cooperate employee," she stated. "This is perfectly reasonable attire for—"

"A cop," Marcus interjected. "Women who work in offices like to have some fun with their wardrobe, which would be especially true for someone who works for a toy company. Do you have anything in your closet that doesn't look like you're about to bust down someone's door to hit 'em with possession charges?"

"Funny," she said sarcastically as she returned her focus back to the window. "And I'm suppose to take fashion advice from someone who couldn't be bothered to iron his own shirt?"

"Will you just trust me on this one?" he asked dryly. "I use to be married once, so I kinda know what I'm talking about."

She glanced at him, surprised that he would even mention his divorce; he was normally so avoidant of the entire subject. Marcus had already been divorced by the time they were assigned as partners, and despite him being the oversharing sort, she could maybe account for one other instance where he had brought it up in conversation.

"Fine, I'll go home and change after this," she relented, picking up a folder from a nearby desk and headed towards the door.

"You should be thanking me," he called out as he watched his partner leave. "You'll want to look your best in case your butler—"

She shut the door before he could finish his sentence, then moved to return to the interrogation room where the victim's father had been peevishly waiting. He glared daggers at her as she entered.

"Am I free to go?"

"Not quite." She walked back to her previous spot and sat, a loud slap erupting through the air as she harshly set the folder onto the table.

He looked at the folder cautiously. "What's that?"

"Your daughter's autopsy report," she replied, clasping her hands over top of the folder as she stared at him intensely. "According to this, her cause of death was due to multiple stab wounds to the chest—six, to be exact."

"Why are you telling me this?" he questioned warily.

Ignoring him, she continued. "The report also states that the bruising around the puncture marks and the clean penetration of the breastbone would indicate that her injuries would've required significant strength to inflict." Her steely eyes remained on him. "I happen to know from personal experience that you're a fairly strong guy."

"That doesn't mean I killed her. You may as well bring in anyone who spends a few hours at the gym a week."

"Additionally, her body displayed no defensive wounds or signs of a struggle, which means that Alessandra likely knew her killer." She tilted her head to the side. "Did you know that over fifty percent of homicides in the United States are committed by people with a relationship to the victim, and twenty-five percent are by family members?"

"Do you really think that I would kill my daughter?" he asked in a lowered tone, his words rumbling. "My baby girl?"

She slowly shook her head. "I'm just telling you facts, Larry," she stated stoically. "All I'm interested in is facts."

"She's my daughter. She meant the world to me," he said heatedly. "I would never hurt her."

"Then help me out, because the longer you and I sit here, the longer your daughter's killer walks free," she calmly said. "Where were you yesterday, between seven thirty and eight?"

He let out a disgruntled sigh, his eyes closing as a hand reached to rub his face in frustration. He hesitated for a moment before he spoke. "I was with my girlfriend."

"Then why didn't you tell us that from the very beginning, and why did you continue to lie to us today?"

"Because I'm married!" he shot angrily, a vein appearing on his forehead. The table shook as his hand slammed down onto the surface. "And the last thing Alessandra's mother needs right now is to know about my affair."

"How very considerate of you," she sarcastically remarked. "And your girlfriend can confirm your whereabouts?"

"Yes," he said as he narrowed his eyes at her. "And I'm not saying anything else without my lawyer, so if that's all, I'd like to go home and plan my baby girl's funeral."

—

The earl stood behind the podium as he waited for the clapping to subside, his presence, the embodiment of pride and solemnity. He stared out into the crowd of onlooking spectators, unfazed by the occasional flashes from the surrounding cameras.

"In the late nineteenth century, my forefather and namesake founded this company with a desire to bring joy to children throughout the classes," he began, the audience already captivated by his words. "In a time when inclusiveness was not at the forefront of societal precedence, my ancestor persevered and went on to create Funtom Company's first ever products, our lollipops, and of course, the beloved Bitter Rabbit. Three years after that fact, Funtom had become Great Britain's leading confectionery and toy manufacturer.

"Today, our company is still a household name and remains synonymous with excellence, tradition, and long lasting memories; not only in the United Kingdom, but throughout the world. In China, Funtom brand mooncakes are a favourite to be eaten when celebrating the harvest festival; Funtom chocolate truffles are a sought-after treat in France; our locum is a popular choice in the Baltic states; and let's not forget Bitter Rabbit, who has made a home across boarders and oceans.

"It was only a few short years ago since we initially entered the American market on the shelves of department stores, and we were overwhelmed by the response from your great country. I consider it a privilege to be standing here today, opening our first ever American flagship store—something that wouldn't have been possible without you, our patrons.

"I'd like to thank everyone for your continued supported, and in the spirit of the upcoming holidays, I'd also like to announce that all the proceeds from today will be donated to the Seattle Children's hospital."

Blanche lightly clapped along as people broke into applause, standing off to the side of the scene. She watched the earl step away from the podium and accept a pair of long silver shears from his butler, an influx of cheers coming from the crowd as he ceremoniously snipped the oversized blue ribbon.

She found herself mildly impressed by the speech: it was was proud, but not self indulgent; passionate, but not overzealous. She recalled her father once telling her that one could tell a great deal about a person by the way they delivered a speech, and while she felt that such a notion was flawed in the face of employing others to write aforementioned speech, she had a feeling that the earl's words were his own.

She was torn from her thoughts as the earl began to approach, his butler making his way into the store after a brief exchange with his master.

"Shall we go inside, Detective Bennett?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "If you're still trying to keep things discreet, then I suggest you stop referring to me as 'detective', especially when we're in such a public setting."

"I suppose you're right," he said as he flashed her a smug grin. "How else would you rather I address you, _Detective_?"

She wondered if the earl was being unintentionally patronizing, or if he was just shamelessly condescending. She noticed that through all of their interactions that he seemed to tether between being perfectly aloof to annoyingly arrogant, which made him difficult to read.

"Blanche is fine," she stated, following at the earl's heels as he began to lead her towards the front entrance.

"So we're on a first name basis now." He gave her a quick glance as he glided past the doorman, who nodded at them in recognition.

She felt her eye involuntarily twitch, slightly flustered by his words. "For the time being, yes," she said stiffly, directing her gaze around the bustling store. She quickly turned her attention back to Ciel as he let out a low hum of amusement.

"My, how unexpected," he remarked plainly. "I would've never imagined you'd be so prickly."

She tensed up like a ruffled cat. "Prickly?" she echoed. "How am I—" There was a brief pause as she centred herself, before she spoke with a forced coolness. "How am I prickly?"

"It's merely an observation. Nothing more."

She stared at him, taken aback by his boldness. She opened her mouth to respond when she was suddenly cut off by a man who had approached them, a full-frame camera hanging from his neck.

"Excuse me, Lord Phantomhive," he said with a friendly smile. "I'm with the _Seattle_ _Times_. Would I be able get a photo with you and the mayor?" he asked, gesturing towards the elected official who was standing amongst his entourage and a bouncing Bitter Rabbit mascot.

"Of course." He took a step forward, his head turning to Blanche as he began take his leave. "Please excuse me, _Blanche_."

She watched the earl approach the mayor with a smile that didn't wholly reach his eyes, the politician countering with a more enthusiastic greeting. Her head tilted slightly as they interacted, noticing an air of familiarity between them as they spoke.

"He knows the mayor," she muttered quietly to herself.

 _That's what the lieutenant must have meant when he said the earl was 'a friend of the city.'_

"His children are avid fans of the Bitter Rabbit line."

Her eyes briefly shut as she let out a sigh. "I see you're still sneaking up on people," she muttered as she turned around to find Sebastian standing behind her. She unconsciously took a step back as she found him to be a little closer than she had anticipated.

It would seem that the butler had very little regard for personal space.

"My apologies. _Do I scare you_?"

She blinked, feeling as if she had zoned out as those words had left his mouth. She felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck raise. "I'm sorry?"

"Did I scare you?" he repeated, his lips slightly curved.

Had she misheard him?

She stared at him, slowly shaking her head. "No, you didn't," she replied, her arms crossing uncomfortably. "Not this time—what were you saying about the mayor's children?" she asked, quickly changing the subject.

"His daughters are among Bitter Rabbit's most devoted fans," he stated. "They have a particular fondness for the book collection." He gestured towards a nearby display that featured a figurine of the one-eyed rabbit in a deerstalker hat and trench coat, surrounded the rows of children's storybooks.

She directed her gaze towards the display, then huffed a slight laugh. " _The Complete Tales of Bitter Rabbit_ ," she mused. "I use to make my grandfather spend countless hours reading those stories to me."

"Did you?" He looked at her in amusement.

"Don't look so surprised." She threw him a quick glance before she focused her gaze back on the earl, wanting to keep a watchful eye on him. "When I was young, I was gifted the first volume of stories when my grandparents returned from their trip to England; that, along with the plush toy, which my grandfather would comically refer to as, 'the rabbit that put Paddington Bear out of a job.'" She wore the faintest hint of a smile at the memory. "I adored that thing…for the three weeks that I had it."

"That doesn't sound like the longevity that we would normally expect from our products." Sebastian raised his eyebrow. "If you don't mind my asking, what became of it after those three weeks?"

"Harper became of it," she stated matter-of-factly. Sensing his questioning look, she said in clarification, "The family dog."

"I see." A visible frown appeared on his lips, his words dripping with distaste.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Michaelis?" she asked, noticing his change of tone.

"No, I'm just not especially fond of dogs." He wore a placid smile. "To be completely frank, I hate them."

"You hate dogs?" she asked incredulously. "Even puppies?"

"Especially puppies: annoying, dependent creatures. I don't understand man's obsession with them." He spoke so nonchalantly of such an disesteemed opinion, that she couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

"Show me on the doll where the puppy touched you," she said in dry jest. Turning to the butler, she was greeted by his humourless stare. She cleared her throat.

 _Okay, so he really doesn't like dogs._

"I must say, I am honoured that you would share such a personal story with a humble servant," he said, causing her to let out a surprised cough.

She turned her head back to him, studying his expression. He didn't seem like he was joking, but surely…

"May I ask you something?" she suddenly asked, ignoring the reflexive shiver that ran down her spine as he pulled his gaze away from his master to look at her.

"You just did."

She gave him a bored look. Put off, she prepared to turn away when his amused chortle gave her pause.

"My apologies, Ms. Bennett. Please continue."

She stared at him for a few seconds before a short huff escaped her lips. She lifted her hand towards him, gesturing the length of his body. "This whole butler thing: does it ever…," she hesitated, "turn off?"

"How do you mean, Ms. Bennett?" He tilted his head slightly to the side.

"' _Humble servant_ '? You can't possibly…," she began, unsure of how to word her question. "Do you genuinely—"

"Behave like this?" He smirked. "My master had ordered that I take on role of a butler most fitting of his title, and bound to his command, I remain his loyal servant," he explained, his eyes appearing to study her as he spoke. "I carry out his bidding; a Phantomhive butler who can't be capable of doing that isn't worth his salt."

 _Because that's not weird at all._

"And if he asks that you throw yourself into oncoming traffic?" she challenged.

"I will do as he orders me to, no matter how unreasonable that may be."

She let out another huff, turning away indignantly; he clearly wasn't taking her question seriously. She focused her attention back on the earl, who appeared to be stiffly conversing with an overdressed and _overly_ friendly woman. She thought about saving him, but then again, she was there to guard him from guns, not gold digging social climbers.

Besides, it's probably best that she keeps her distance. She's so _prickly_ , and she wouldn't want to poke him with her thorns.

"You seem dissatisfied with my answer," Sebastian remarked, his eyes remaining on her.

"No, but I do find it a bit strange that you aren't giving me a real answer," she replied as she kept her eyes on the scene ahead of her, feeling a quiet satisfaction as she watched the earl's discomfort boiling from behind his strained politeness. "Not that you're obligated to tell me the truth. I was only curious."

"What makes you think that my answer was anything but?"

"Because it's ridiculous," she stated flatly. "No one is that loyal towards their employer." She returned her gaze to him, and immediately regretted it as a wave of unease washed over her from his widened smile.

She could never wholly describe it: that underlying wicked quality to him.

"I do not tell lies, Ms. Bennett."

—

Blanche walked at a hurried pace towards her car, eager to get back to the precinct to return to her work. She had a fair amount of paperwork that had accumulated over the last couple of days, and she wanted to make up for the lost time from being away for the event; especially since the following day will be her day off.

As she neared her car, her eyebrows furrowed as she spotted something sitting on the hood, but from her position, it was difficult to make out exactly what it was. She made a beeline towards the object, her eyebrow raised upon the realization that it was a Bitter Rabbit plush toy. She picked it up, glancing around for any sign of a child that may have accidentally left it there, before her eyes fell back to the velvety soft toy. Seeing a tag hanging from one of its ears, she gently grasped it and looked down at the gorgeous penmanship which marked the laminated surface.

She read under her breath, "'Thank you for your hard work.'"


	9. Deal With The Devil

**Author's note:** This chapter contains some very light references to _Book of the Atlantic._

* * *

The rain lightly drummed against the surrounding windows as Blanche was seated on her sofa in the midmorning, hovering over her laptop. With her eyes never leaving the screen, she reached for her mug on the coffee table and idly held it between her hands, allowing the heat from the tea to warm her cool fingertips.

 _Campania is a region in southwest Italy known for its ancient ruins and dramatic coastline…_

"That's probably not it," she murmured, a hand leaving the heated comfort of her mug to scroll through the list of search results.

It would appear that a majority of the other search results directed her towards similar subjects: Italy, travel blogs, cheap flights, and the like. Thinking back to the way the butler had worded it, it didn't sound like he was referring to something geographical—even if he was, unless they had some ties with the Italian mafia that she wasn't aware of, it didn't make sense as to why the crime scene would remind them of a region in Italy.

' _It almost gives you flashbacks of the Campania_.'

' _ **The** Campania_.'

As she scrolled further down the list, she furrowed her eyebrows, clicking on a link which seemed to obscure from the rest. She was immediately greeted by a black and white photograph of a steamship, which was accompanied by a small report.

 _The RMS Campania was a luxury British passenger liner owned by the Blue Star Line. It's maiden voyage was scheduled to depart from Southampton on April 17 1889…_

"Not that either," she sighed, shutting her laptop with a quick snap. She brought the hot beverage to her lips and took in the scent of matcha, the curls of steam warming her face as her lids fell shut.

In reference to his phrasing, this vaguely made more sense, but she failed to see how this would be remotely reminiscent to the crime scene; not to mention, the timeline was way _way_ off. Unless the earl and his butler were a few generations older than her grandparents, which obviously isn't the case, this answer made even less sense than Italy would have.

' _Perhaps I'm simply not human_ ,' Sebastian's voice reverberated in her head, causing a chill to run down her spine.

Her eyes shot open as a sharp tapping came from a nearby window, her head whipping to the direction of the sound. She was surprised to see a raven perched on the opposite side, staring at her with unblinking, beady eyes. She held its gaze, finding herself a little unnerved by the bird's unusual behaviour. After a few seconds passed, she pried her eyes away, letting out a small huff as she firmly set her mug back down onto the coffee table.

This was a waste of her time. Why should it matter what the butler had been referring to?

Shaking her head, she brought her attention back to her laptop as she flipped it open and promptly exited the browser. She refused to spend another moment of her day off thinking about that arrogant earl and his creepy manservant. Whatever the _Campania_ was, it was irrelevant to the case, and most importantly, it was none of her concern.

As her finger hovered over the power button of her laptop, a notification for an incoming call appeared on the display, followed by a familiar ringtone. Recognizing the display name as her brother's, she answered, waiting for his face to register on the screen before she spoke.

"Sterling, it's nearly midnight where you are. What are you still doing up?" she asked with a lifted brow. "And aren't you suppose to be venturing off in some cave?"

He appeared to be sitting on the bed of his hotel room, the headboard and pillows serving as a backdrop. Despite the dim lighting from his table lamp, she could make out a healthy flush on the the highest points of his face, kissed from the tropical sun.

"I'm a grown man, I decide when it's my bedtime," he lightly chuckled. "Our bus leaves from Hanoi in the morning, and then it's an almost eleven hour ride to the cave site. We were suppose to be there yesterday, but we had a bit of a hiccup with our guide."

"All the better that you get some sleep," she advised, staring at the screen with a curious expression. "Not that I mind chatting, but I doubt that you're calling to give me an update on your trip. What's going on?"

He grinned at her question. "I learned something interesting about you today."

"Oh?" She reached for her mug and lifted it towards her face, preparing to take a drink. "And, pray tell, what would that be?"

"According to our _dear_ Cousin Priscilla, you've been on a date."

Burying her face into her elbow, she choked on her tea. "What?" she croaked through her stifled coughs, her eyes slightly watering as she peered over at the screen. "Well, this is certainly news to me."

"Don't play dumb, Blanche," he said in an accusatory tone, his words never losing their playfulness. "There's proof, so you may as well admit it."

"How can there be proof when I'm telling you the truth?" She hastily set her drink back down. "Don't you think that if I've been seeing someone, you'd be the first to know?"

He looked unconvinced. "Hold on," he sighed theatrically, beginning to tap away at his keyboard. After a few seconds, a link to a website appeared on their chat log. "How do you explain this, then?"

Clicking on the link, she was prompted to a page from a local news site, featuring an article outlining the event from the previous day. The article was headed by a photo of the earl and the mayor, standing on opposite sides of the Bitter Rabbit mascot.

"What is this suppose to prove, exactly?"

"Keep scrolling."

Doing as instructed, she continued through the article, her eyebrows then furrowing as she spotted a candid photo of herself and the earl, featured amongst various other miscellaneous shots from the event. At the bottom of the photo, in italicized print, read: Lord Ciel Phantomhive with his date. She tilted her head to the side.

"His _date_?" she spat, her eyes wide with shock.

"Are you still going to deny it?"

Eyes drifting shut, she groaned, pressing her palm against her forehead. "This is bad. This is really bad."

"What's so bad about this?" Sterling asked, his arms casually crossing over his chest. "Our parents will be thrilled. The CEO of Funtom Corporation? I didn't think you had it in you."

"That's because I don't!" She drew her hand from her face, waving it for emphasis.

"Come now, don't be so self depreciating," he lightly scolded.

"No, Sterling, you don't understand!" she pressed. "I wasn't there as his date, I was there for work."

He blinked, his face falling into a look of realization. "Oh."

"I was patrolling the event undercover."

"Oh," he repeated in a similar, flat tone.

She shook her head. "If Priscilla's seen this, that means our aunt likely has as well; which means that it's only a matter of time until our parents hear about it." Her fingers combed through her hair in frustration. "This is not good."

"Not good?" he snorted. "You do know what's going to happen, don't you? For the first time in years, they'll finally approve of something that you did, and the moment their proverbial bubble is burst by the truth, they'll suddenly be reminded of just how disappointed they are with your life choices."

"Thanks," she huffed. "They're not exactly happy with your life choices either."

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Yes, but I've paid my dues: I graduated law school; I passed the bar; I did everything they've ever wanted me to, short of using my degree," he said with a chuckle. "I figure I have one or two more years of fooling around before mom's finally had enough, and I'll have to start slaving away as a first year associate at some stuffy firm."

Taking in the carefree nature of his words, she sighed. "I don't know how you can do it, Sterling," she said. "How can you be so content with letting their priorities lead your life?"

"Well, someone has to do it," he said as he flashes her an amused grin. "It may as well be the sibling who has no real sense of direction in their life. Besides, do you know how miserable they'd make us if one of us _isn't_ a lawyer?"

The thought alone made her grimace.

"They'd be insufferable," she quietly agreed. After long, deep sigh, she then said, "In regards to our parents, maybe it won't be as bad as we think."

"You mean, when they find out that you aren't seeing whom they'd consider to be a suitable candidate for you?"

 _He's not that perfect, trust me._

" _If_ they find out," she corrected. "With this wedge between dad and I, it's bound to put a temper on their scrutiny."

"Two issues with that," he said, tapping his chin in mock thought. "First, of course they'll find out. It's not a matter of _if_ , it's a matter of _when_. Second, do you honestly, wholeheartedly believe what you're saying right now?"

She stared at the screen, holding her breath for a moment before letting out a defeated grunt. "No, not even remotely."

—

"Detective Bennett," Sebastian acknowledged as he answered the door, looking a touch surprised to see her despite them having spoken over the phone not long before. "I did not expect that you'd arrive so soon."

She hadn't anticipated on finding him in such a casual state, having always seen him so immaculately dressed from their previous encounters. He wore a vest, but his suit jacket and tie had been abandoned in favour of rolling up his shirt sleeves, and his hands were free of the gloves—formal white or black leather—which he usually wore.

"I was on my way over when I had called," she explained, stepping into the home as he ushered her inside. She shrugged off her rain dotted coat. "Is he in his study?"

"Surprisingly, no," he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "My master had decided to take his work into the sunroom. Perhaps he wanted a change of scenery for today."

"A little dreary to be hanging out in a sunroom, don't you think?" she muttered quietly, tensing as the words slipped from her lips. She was a bit relieved as he smirked at her remark, opting not to comment as he offered to take her coat.

Her eyes trailed down to his hands as he took the garment from her, hiding her perplexity as she saw that his fingernails, like the earl's, were painted a stark black. What she found herself most focused on was the tattoo on the back of his left hand; it appeared to be a variation of a pentagram, with some lettering and strange symbols.

Perhaps the butler wasn't as proper as he had always let on.

She turned her gaze back to his face, not wanting to be caught staring at his tattoo. Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes unexpectedly met, feeling a lead ball dropping in her stomach. She watched as he offered her another smile before he turned to hang her coat on a nearby coat stand, a knowing look on his face which alluded that she had been found out.

"Shall we, Detective?" Sebastian asked as turned to once again face her, waiting for her to respond with a mere nod before he started across the dark tile.

She wordlessly followed him from behind as he guided her through the manor, her eyes shifting around as she observed the décor: dark, heavily masculine, with many classical influences—a touch archaic for her taste, but to each their own. She hadn't been able to observe the interior of the home with this much depth during her first visit; aside from the earl's rather opulent study, there wasn't much to take in from the staircase and the hallway which led to said study.

They began to approach a set of dark French doors, its glass panes displaying the lavish interior of the sunroom. Through the glass, she could see that the earl was seated on a chair, the light from the windows lighting him from behind, making him appear as little more than a dark silhouette.

Opening the doors, Sebastian announced, "My lord, Detective Bennett has arrived."

Ciel turned up from the small stack of documents in his hands, pulled from his focus by the sound of the butler's voice. Like Sebastian, he was also dressed more casually than she was use to seeing, sporting a thick Aran sweater in a forest green, and chinos. He would've looked cozy, if not for his typical cold expression.

"Good afternoon, Detective," he calmly greeted, giving Sebastian a slight nod as he bowed to excuse himself from the room. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Stepping forward, she offered her phone to him, the article preemptively pulled up on the screen. "Have you seen this?"

"Of course I have," he said as he briefly glanced to the small device, making no attempt to take it from her. "What of it?"

"No, have you _truly_ looked at this?" Her finger scrolled through the article before pointing towards the caption beneath the photo. "In case you haven't noticed, it says here that I was your date for yesterday's event."

"Is that what this is about?" he scoffed. "This is nothing more than a minute error on the journalist's behalf. I assure you, people will pay it no mind."

"No, you don't get it," she firmly said. "We _have_ to fix this."

"What exactly do you propose that we do, Detective?" he asked, his brow lifting. "Call the newspaper and tell them that we are in fact, _not_ an item? Demand that they release a retraction in tomorrow's paper, which would only serve to draw more attention on this trivial matter? Surely, that would leave more room for presumption."

"Obviously not that, but we have to do something," she said adamantly. "Do you have any idea who my parents are, and how they're going to react if they catch wind of this?"

"Then tell them it was a mistake. I'm sure they will understand." He looked as if he couldn't be bothered to care.

"Understand?" She let out a wry laugh. "My mother is the managing partner for New York's most prominent white-shoe law firm, and my father is the judge of the New York State Supreme Court of its criminal branch. Do you have any idea what kind of psychotic, pathologically ambitious despots occupy those kinds of positions, and I have not one, but two breathing down my neck?" she asked with conviction in her voice. "Believe me, they are not the understanding sort."

"Your parents live on the opposite coast, and you're making this great of a fuss?" He stared at her, wearing a bored expression. "What can they possibly do to you from the other side of the country?"

"Do you think I'm worried about having to dodge a few phone calls? If that was the case, I wouldn't be standing here," she said, mirroring his look. "Every year, they host a banquet in celebration of their wedding anniversary, and this year, they'll be celebrating thirty years of tolerating each other. That means that in exactly two weeks from now, I'll have to fly out there for the weekend, and unlike the past several months where I've been meticulously avoiding them, I'm obligated to be there. I'm not concerned about what they can do to me from across the country, I'm concerned about what they'll do to me when I cross the country."

"I don't believe I've ever seen you so agitated, Detective," he remarked with a smug grin.

"Listen to me," she demanded. "If we don't do something about this soon…," she trailed off as she felt a buzzing from her phone. Glancing down at it, she winced as she saw the caller ID. "And that would be my father."

"Aren't you going to answer it?" he asked in taunting as he inclined forward in his seat.

"No, why would I do an incredibly stupid thing like that?"

He sighed, and like a flower unfurling, he offers his hand. "Then let me talk to him. I'll have this sorted out."

"Are you insane?" She stared at him incredulously. "If he knows that I'm with you, that's only going to further verify that there's some sort of relationship between you and I," she said, protectively tucking her still-vibrating phone into the pocket of her cardigan. "No one is talking to him."

"Then let him think what he likes." He pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "I fail to see how this has anything to do with me."

"Do you honestly believe that they wouldn't involve you?" she asked. "I think you're underestimating just how crazy my parents are."

"Well, if the apple is any indication…," he quietly muttered, ignoring the look she shot him. Sighing, he then said, "If I say I'll help you, would you leave my home and allow me to carry on with the rest of my day?"

She crossed her arms and leaned forward. "Absolutely."

"And you understand that there's nothing which can be done regarding the physical copies," he stated. "We can only reasonably expect that the newspaper will revise what's on their website."

She slightly cringed. _There are physical copies?_

He raised an eyebrow at her lack of response. "Do we have an agreement, Detective?" he asked as he rose from his seat, extending his arm to shake her hand.

She straightened, feeling irrationally unnerved as he stood before her, a few inches taller than she. Clearing her throat, she nodded. "Yes," she said, reaching over and grasping his hand in a firm handshake.

A light chuckle came from the door and the pair immediately turned to Sebastian, who looked at them in amusement as he balanced a tray of tea and small cakes in his hand. He stepped into the room and glided towards them in long, graceful strides.

"It appears that I have just borne witness to a deal being struck with the _devil_ ," the butler said in jest, earning a sharp look from his master. "As we have a guest, I've brought some refreshment."

She glanced at the earl before turning her gaze back to the butler. "I really should be on my way," she said stiffly. "There's no need to go through the trouble."

"There's no trouble at all." Despite his placid smile and amicable tone, there was a commanding quality to his words. "We simply cannot send you on your way without first showing you the full Phantomhive hospitality."

"Really, I—"

Ciel interrupted her with a sigh; one of many since her arrival. "You've already come all this way," he said, making no attempt to hide his mild annoyance. "You might as well stay for tea."

 _No. Say no._

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," she said reluctantly, watching as the corners of Sebastian's lips tugged upwards, contorting his polite smile into something that seemed almost frightening. His expression made her feel a little nauseous.

"Please, do have a seat, Detective."


	10. Father Sebastian

"For today's tea, we have osmanthus oolong. It is a high-mountain tea from Taiwan, delicately scented with rare osmanthus flowers. This tea is prized for its delicate aroma and subtle, fruity flavour, which will be accompanied by cannelés de Bordelaise."

With measured movements, the butler tilted the teapot forward, a stream of hot liquid flowing through the strainer and into the cup. He took great care so that not a single drop would spill onto the serving trolley as he finished pouring and removed the metal sieve. Turning to the detective, he offered his usual polite smile and held the teacup out to her, balancing it on its saucer without so much as a clink.

"Thank you." She accepted the cup from him, then watched with mild fascination as he moved on to pour an additional cup for his master. She couldn't comprehend how he managed to make such a mundane task seem so elegant.

The rain began to fall at a much greater velocity, blurring the view from the windows into something that resembled a watercolour painting. She turned her gaze away from the butler and onto the sight of the rain-freckled glass, allowing herself the momentary distraction before the earl's voice brought her attention back ahead.

"Osmanthus flowers?" He brought his cup to his lips and took in the aroma of the tea. "This is certainly a change from the usual."

"I felt that the floral balance to the brew would pair nicely with the richness of the cannelés," Sebastian replied, his eyes betraying his amusement. "If it's not to your liking, my lord, I can prepare you a different variety."

"It's fine," he replied in a plain, dismissive tone.

She dryly arched a brow but remained silent, taking a sip of her tea. She had once been told by her well-traveled brother that the osmanthus flower is a traditional symbol of romance in Taiwanese culture, and is often used in wedding customs. Knowing this, she wondered if the butler had selected the tea as a means to poke fun at the situation regarding his master and herself.

Sebastian turned to face her as he reverently assumed his position beside the earl, a faint smirk on his lips as if to confirm her thoughts.

"Since I have you here, Detective," the earl began, pointedly meeting her eyes. "I've been meaning to ask what became of Mr. Turner after his arrest."

"He's undergoing psychiatric evaluation pending trial," she answered, taking another sip of her tea before lowering the delicate cup into its saucer. "I was shocked to learn that you wouldn't be pressing charges. May I ask as to why?"

"I have no interest in retribution," he said, his voice firm. "The man has clearly experienced some trauma, and I am not in the habit of tormenting the sick."

"Trauma?" She furrowed her eyebrows at his statement, finding it a touch specific. "What makes you say that?"

"Neil Turner was a man of sound mind who was also quite capable in his work—which is what makes his sudden fall into madness that much more shocking," he said, his bored expression turning grim. "I am certain that something must have transpired to have driven him to such a state."

She studied the earl as he spoke, noticing him staring at his butler the corner of his eye, Sebastian returning his gaze. Drawing her cup to her lips, a question began to creep into the edges of her mind.

Did they know something about Mr. Turner, something she didn't?

"Out of curiosity, why are you so convinced that something had triggered his mental state?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "It's also possible that Mr. Turner had a preexisting mental illness, and his actions and behavioural shift were as a result of him failing to seek proper treatment."

Staring at her for a moment, the earl then smiled, giving her an amused look. "You disagree with me, then?"

"No, I'm not disagreeing," she said as she shook her head. "What I'm trying to say is that until there's evidence, the reasoning behind Mr. Turner's condition is still up in the air. I don't think it's fair to speculate when we don't have all of the facts yet."

She didn't understand why, but she found herself questioning the earl's sincerity. She felt like she was telling him things that he already knew, and that he was using this conversation as a means to examine her.

"'It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data,'" she recited, shifting uncomfortably under their intent gaze. "'Insensibility one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.' S—"

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, _A Scandal in Bohemia_."

She blinked, nodding. "Yes."

A crack of thunder erupted from outside as lightning shot across the turbulent sky, bathing the sunroom in a fleeting brilliance. The wind whistled furiously and scratched against the windows, pelting the glass torrents of rainwater.

"A fan of Sir Doyle's works, are you?" A smirk twisted on the butler's lips. "It appears you and my master have that in common…among other things."

The earl shot his butler a look before fixing his gaze back on the detective. "Then tell me," he said, "theories and speculations aside, what can we expect of Mr. Turner's fate if this case were to go to trial?"

"That would depend on how his legal counsel chooses to proceed." She brought her cup to her lips and took a drink. "If this case were to hypothetically go to court, his mental health will likely be asserted as mitigation or as his defence. If the judge were to find him guilty and mentally ill at the time of the offence, we can expect that he will be serving his sentence either in prison or at a mental health facility."

"And if he was found not guilty?"

"In order for a not guilty verdict, he would have to be found legally insane at the time of the offence. His lawyer would need to prove that Mr. Turner had lacked the ability to appreciate the wrongfulness of his actions," she explained, her words followed by a deep roll of thunder. "Which, as you can imagine, is no easy task. The insanity defence is rarely raised, and if ever, rarely successful."

"I see," the earl muttered, exchanging another glance with his butler. "Well, let's hope for Mr. Turner's sake that he has a good attorney."

Sebastian arched an amused brow.

—

"Are you at all religious, Detective Bennett?"

She looked at the butler as they descended the front steps of the manor, watching as he unfurled an umbrella over their heads to shield them from the rain. She didn't believe that she had given any indication of whether she had been devout or otherwise, so the question struck her as odd.

"No, I'm not," she replied, the heels of her jodhpurs clicking against the soaked pavement as they made their way towards her car. Looking at him inquisitively, she asked, "Why the sudden interest in my faith?"

"You appear to always be wearing that necklace," he remarked, glancing to the detective as he strode alongside her. "Saint Michael, if I'm not mistaken."

Her hand unconsciously went to the base of her throat, her fingertips brushing against the surface of the rounded white gold pendant; It was small, and depicted the archangel with his wings outstretched, wielding a sword and shield as he stood over a serpentine representation of the devil.

"It was a gift from my brother for when I graduated the police academy, which is ironic when you take into account that he also isn't religious."

"A non-religious person gifting another non-religious person a religious item," he thoughtfully mused. "How curious."

She huffed a slight laugh, turning her attention ahead as they neared her vehicle. "My brother is a world traveler and tends to go through fazes with every country that he visits. It just so happened that around that time, he had returned from Rome, where he learned through the locals that Saint Michael is the patron of police officers." Hearing him muttering something, she turned her gaze to him in confusion. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"It was nothing," he said, a coy smile on his lips. "Are you familiar with Archangel Michael?"

"Other than what I just told you, I can't say that I do." She slid her hands into her coat pockets and rooted around for her keys. "My knowledge of the bible is very much limited to what I had picked up from the obligatory Easter services and even then, I haven't had to attend those in years."

"Michael led the war in heaven between angels in the Book of Revelations. The depiction on your pendant is suppose to show him defeating Lucifer before he was cast from heaven, along with the one-third of the angelic host that had sided with him."

She raised an eyebrow, having not expected him to be so seemingly well versed in the bible—perhaps because she found him to have such a devilish presence.

"You must've been a star pupil in Sunday school."

"A shooting star, really," he said with a wry smile, his voice laced in humour.

She looked at him with a confused expression, unsure of what he had meant but decided against questioning. Finding her pockets void of anything but her phone, she slid a hand underneath her coat to check the inside breast pocket.

"Did it ever say what had happened to them, the angels that fell?" she asked, partially distracted by the search for her keys.

"According to scripture, God cast them down to hell and delivered them into chains of darkness, to be reserved for judgement day." There was a strange glint in his eyes as he spoke. "Though, many have interpreted through various other passages that the fallen angels went on to becoming demons."

Blanche nodded slowly, unable to find a proper response. She was by no means an atheist, but she was skeptical of theological orthodoxies of any description. Angels and demons, heaven and eternal damnation—it sounded like fiction to her.

Just as she began to pat herself down, a sudden click came from the driver's side door. Bewildered, she looked to her car and found the pull pin raised in the unlocked position. Turning back to face the butler, she was immediately met with her keys, held at eye level between the long, slender fingers of his left hand.

"It was on the floor by the front entrance," he stated, a faint smirk on his lips. "It must have dropped from your pocket when you were putting on your coat."

She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes unconsciously trailing to the mark on the back of his hand before they locked with his. Swallowing, she reached to take the keys from him, feeling her stomach twist as their fingers brushed.

"So, what's the story behind you?" The words slipped from her mouth before she knew she had said them.

He feigned a look of confusion. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"All of this bible talk, that strange tattoo on the back of your hand…are you the old cliché of a preacher's son who rebelled?" she asked, masking her discomfort under the guise of light jest.

Sebastian held her under his fervent gaze, staring at her for a moment before a light chuckle escaped his lips. He appeared to be genuinely amused by her words. "How very discerning you are, Detective," he said as he took a step forward.

She drew back and felt herself press against the side of her car, his hand reaching past her to grasp at the door handle. The sound of the rain was drowned out by the pounding in her ears, the rhythm matched by her heart as it hammered away in her chest. She felt her breath catch in her throat as he inched closer, his lips slightly parted as he smiled.

There was a look in his eyes that she had never before seen from anyone, and she was at a loss to find the words to describe it. They almost didn't look human, they almost looked…

 _Beastly_ , she thought.

After what seemed like ages, he finally spoke. "Detective Bennett."

"Yes?" She kept her voice level and firm.

"I'm going to have to ask that you move if I am to open this door for you."

Blanche quickly stepped aside, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as he continued to smile at her. She watched as he opened the door to her car, then stood there ever so dutifully as he waited for her to board.

"That wasn't necessary, but thank you." She fought off the urge to avert her gaze as she stepped towards the open door, drawing in a subtle breath. "And thank you for having me."

"It was our pleasure to have you as our guest." His eyes remained on her as she lowered herself into the driver's seat. "Please feel free to visit us again. We'll always be happy to offer you the famed Phantomhive hospitality."

She breathed a sigh of relief as the door finally shuts, her fingers immediately finding their way to the start button. With a hand resting on the gear shift, she readied to reverse the car when she was suddenly compelled to roll down the window.

Turning her attention to Sebastian, she then said, "You know, if you ever get bored with being a butler, you might want to consider joining the cloth." She offered a half smile.

Standing there, he smirked. "You think so, Detective?"

"Father Sebastian—it has a fun ring to it, don't you think?"


	11. Shiva

Blanche stood in the shooting stall with her feet planted shoulder length apart, her eyes staring out through her safety glasses at the paper target down range. With her arms extended and locked, she pointed her gun towards the inky silhouette and began to repeatedly pull the trigger, the loud shots piercing the air. Lowering her weapon, she looked at the cluster of holes at the centre of the ten ring and let out a hum of satisfaction, ejecting the empty magazine into her hand.

From the moment she left his estate, she has been unable to shake the earl from her thoughts. There was something about their conversation from the previous day that didn't sit well with her, and she found herself replaying the interaction in her head, in search of a disparity that would give reason to her discontent.

She mulled over what he had said regarding Mr. Turner's condition, and how certain he seemed that his snap from sanity was due to a singular force. He had spoken with such conviction in his voice, as if stating facts; it made her wonder if he knew more than what he eluded to.

 _'He's not what he looks like.'_

What happened to Neil Turner? What was the reason—the real reason—behind the deterioration of his mental state?

 _'You don't know what he is.'_

And why did he want the earl dead to the extent that he had followed him halfway across the world?

 _'He's the devil!'_

Shaking her head, she slammed a loaded magazine into the well and drew back the slide, releasing it and chambering the round with an audible click. Aiming her gun back towards the target, she began firing her weapon, the brass shells flicking over her shoulder one by one.

There was a nagging feeling inside her that told her something was amiss—like there was an underlying truth that everyone, including herself, was overlooking. She had a vague sense that there was more to this case than what lies beneath the surface, and there was more to the earl and his butler than what their outwardly appearance suggests.

She lifted her weapon and discharged her last round, the bullet streaking across the range and puncturing a hole through the centre of the silhouette's head. She tugged her earmuffs to her neck, then turned to peer over her shoulder as she heard a whistle from behind her.

"Nice shooting. I thought I'd find you here when you weren't at your desk," Marcus remarked, his arms crossing over his chest as he stood behind the yellow line. "How was your day off—or was it much of a day off, being that it's you?" he asked with a playful grin.

Blanche raised an eyebrow at him before turning her focus back to her gun. "It was alright," she said, dropping the spent magazine and replacing it with a loaded one from the counter. "What did you get up to while I was gone?"

She didn't want to get into detail about her day off, knowing full well how Marcus would take it. She wasn't in the mood to deal with his stream of jokes pertaining to the butler and their nonexistent romantic relationship.

"You'd be so proud of me," he declared, beaming. "I interviewed the second victim's closest friends, and I managed to get a hold of the dad's girlfriend to verify his statement. On top of that, I finished all of the corresponding paperwork."

Switching on the safety and holstering her weapon, she looked at him in astonishment. "Colour me impressed, Marcus." She grabbed a handful of loose bullets from a small box on the counter and began to reload one of the two empty magazines. "What prompted the sudden productiveness?"

Marcus uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers, snorting. "What, I need a reason to do my job?" he asked defensively, his brows furrowing.

She didn't respond, allowing her silence to answer his question while her fingers continued to slip rounds into the clip. After a moment of silence, her partner let out a sigh.

"Okay, the lieutenant may have given me a stern talking to."

"I figured as much," she huffed a laugh, attaching the clips to her belt. "Did you get anything from the interviews?"

"From the victim's friends? Zilch, aside from the fact that women are horrible at being friends," Marcus half joked. "Their friend died a horrific death and the most notable thing they had to say about her was that Alessandra was probably lying about her dress size. That, and a whole butt-load of other gossip; you can read all about it on my report."

"Sounds mind-numbing." She reached up and hit a button on the side of the stall, causing the paper target to sail across the firing range and towards them. Discarding the earmuffs and safety glasses on the counter, she asked, "What about the father's mistress?"

"She confirmed his whereabouts, but that's tentative for obvious reasons. I was, however, able to get a partial alibi from the staff of the hotel they were staying at," he replied. "The front desk verified that they checked in together the night before, and according to the complaints they received from their neighbours, he and his girlfriend can definitely be traced to their room until five that morning—if you know what I mean." He wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

"I know what you mean," she said flatly, half-glaring at him. Tugging the paper target free from the clips, she shook her head at his lack of maturity. "And no one saw him leaving?"

"No, but I do have the security tapes from all points of exit." A frown came to his lips. "I guess it's back to being desk jockeys for us."

Her lips pressed together as indication of her displeasure, crumpling up the paper target as she made her way towards a nearby bin. It hadn't been long since they've finished going through the surveillance footage from Funtom Corporation, so the idea of being once again desk-bound was far from appealing.

"Alright, well let's get started then," she sighed as she disposed of the hole-ridden sheet into the recycling bin. Turning, she began to make her way towards the elevator, her partner in tow.

"You might be happy to know I also cranked through all the paperwork that's been piling up on my desk," he said as he pushed on the elevator button.

She gave him a blank stare. "The leaning tower of procrastination?" she dryly asked. "You finished all of it?" She made no attempt to mask her skepticism.

"Sure did." He grinned, allowing his partner to step into the elevator before he followed suit. "You're looking at the new and improved Marcus Wai Lun Chung."

"New and improved, huh?" She pressed the button to the appropriate floor. "So, if I were to go through your desk right now, I'm not going to find a single file crammed into one of those drawers?"

Her question was followed by a drawn out silence as her partner struggled to find an appropriate answer. The doors glided shut and the elevator began to ascend, passing each floor with an automated ding.

"Why, are you going to check?" His words were stiff as he finally spoke, hands casually stuffing into the pockets of his trousers.

She rolled her eyes and threw him a knowing look, her attention turning back ahead as the doors opened up into their department floor. "Let's head to the break room before we get started. I made a fresh pot of coffee on my way in, and I'd like to get to it before the rest of the vultures do."

"I could do for some coffee," Marcus agreed with a light chuckle, following closely behind as she led him through the floor.

"I'm afraid that's going to have to wait." The lieutenant's voice brought them to an immediate halt. He approached them with his usual stern expression, the scrutiny evident in his eyes as he glanced at Marcus. "A body was found in the U-District, and I need you both to start heading over there."

Hiding her enthusiasm under a stoic expression, she asked, "Whereabouts?"

"Shiva," he replied. "It's a restaurant located on Northeast Fifty-second and University Way."

"Oh man, that place makes the best roti," Marcus remarked, earning a cold glance from both his partner and the lieutenant. He shrunk under their withering gaze.

"Just go," he barked, before storming past them.

She sighed, holding a hand to her forehead in annoyance. "For once, could you please think before you open that mouth of yours?"

"Sorry, my bad."

—

"There's still money in the register," Marcus announced as he joined his partner, mirroring her position as she crouched over the body. He cursed under his breath. "What the hell happened to this guy?"

Before them was the body of a man, laying on his back in a scarlet puddle. His face was caved in and bloody, marred beyond recognition, and his clothes were stained and disheveled.

"Our victim's name is Vik Sreejit, the head chef and owner of the restaurant," Blanche stated, her elbows resting on her knees, hands covered by purple latex gloves. "The M.E. said that the cause of death was likely due to blunt force trauma to the head, with the murder weapon being that dining table," she said, tilting her head towards the aforementioned piece of furniture. "His watch and wallet were found on his person, so we can probably rule out the chance of this being a robbery gone wrong."

The table stood a short distance away, a corner caked in a layer of coagulated blood, tissue, and small fragments of bone. The nearby wall was covered in blood spatter, the multiple layers indicating the repeated bashes to the face that the victim had suffered in his final moments.

"It looks like there was a scuffle in here," he remarked as he glanced around, observing the upturned tables and scattered chairs that surrounded them. "What's the approximate time of death?"

"Based on the advanced state of rigour mortis, M.E. determines that the death occurred between eleven-thirty and midnight," she said. "He was apparently closing the restaurant with his sous-chef last night, who was scheduled to work this morning but has yet to show up. No one's been able to get a hold of him, so I have a couple uniforms checking his address right now."

Furrowing her eyebrows, she reached over and tugged at a string that protruded from the breast pocket of the victim's chef coat, revealing it to be the drawstring to a small cotton pouch. Holding it up, the pair of detectives tilted their heads in unison.

"What do you think this is?" She gently loosened the drawstring and peeked inside, an exotic fragrance immediately wafting to her nose. "Some kind of spice?" she asked, sounding unsure as she observed the fine black powder.

"It definitely looks like it," he said, reaching into the pocket of his bomber and producing an evidence bag. "It smells very strong, but I can't make out what it is." He handed her the bag after pulling apart the seal.

She cinched the lip of the pouch and dropped it into the plastic bag. Rising to stand, she turned her attention to the far end of the restaurant where a uniformed officer was speaking to a visibly shaken man. With Marcus at her heels, she began to approach them, handing the officer the evidence bag with instruction to send to forensics.

"Hey, you're the front of house manager, right?" Marcus asked, shifting his gaze to the man whom the officer was speaking to. "The one who found the body?"

The man nodded in confirmation. "Yeah. Ankush Sharma," he said, introducing himself in a tired note.

"I'm Detective Chung, and this is my partner, Detective Bennett. Any idea who might've done this?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Vik treated his staff like family and was very well liked by everyone."

"Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill Mr. Sreejit?" Blanche asked. "Did he have any enemies—someone that would want to hurt him?"

"He was the nicest man I've ever known. I can't think of anyone who would want to hurt such a good person." For emphasis, he gestured towards the wall behind him where various pictures hung, each depicting the late owner standing amongst hordes of smiling children. "He just came back from a month-long spice tour in India, and he did a lot of charity work while he was there. In fact, most of his free time during his trip was spent helping the needy."

Blanche briefly glanced to the photographs before her eyes fixed on the manager. "Do you have any idea where we can find your sous-chef?"

"Rajesh?" Furrowing his eyebrows, he hesitantly asked, "You don't…you don't think he did this, do you?"

"For now, he's just a person of interest," Blanche politically stated. "He's likely the last person to see Mr. Sreejit alive, so we'd just like to ask him a few questions, as well as make sure that he's okay."

Having said that, she still felt that his sudden disappearance after the murder raises a lot of suspicion.

"I don't think I can help you with that either," he replied, frowning. "Rajesh spends a lot of his free time at home with his family, and sometimes, he'll join the cricket matches that we organize amongst the staff. Other than that, I have no idea where you'd be able to find him."

"Were there ever any disagreements between Rajesh and Vik?" Marcus lifted a brow, casually shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

"No, those two would be the last to ever fight," the man stated. "They're best friends, practically brothers."

Internally, she begged to disagree—even the best of friends quarreled.

Having nothing else to add, she looked to her partner for confirmation that he had no further questions. After a brief and silent exchange, her eyes returned to the manager. "We'll call you if we have any more questions."

They gave a small nod of acknowledgement to the officer who stood idly by, and side by side, they began to head towards the front exit. She ducked through as her partner held the crime scene tape up for her, stepping out into the sidewalk. Once outside, a pair of uniforms began to approach.

"Detective Bennett, we checked out the sous-chef's house, and only his wife and kids were present," one of the officers spoke. "She claimed that he didn't come home last night, and he hasn't been answering his phone."

"In that case, please put out an A.P.V. for him," she instructed, watching as the officers nodded and promptly left to perform their tasks. As they left, she glanced to her partner, whose knowing expression matched her own. "Marcus, you were once married," she muttered. "If your wife didn't return home from work, wouldn't your first instinct be to contact the authorities the next morning?"

"If my wife didn't come home from work and she wasn't picking up her phone, I would've called the cops that night."

She stared at him and following a moment of silence, she started in the direction of her car. Peeling off her gloves, she said, "Well, I suppose today's your lucky day."

"Why's that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he walked alongside her. Greeted only by her wordlessness, he stopped in his tracks and gasped, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "You don't mean…."

"I do," she said plainly, peering at him from over her shoulder as she halted a few paces in front of him. "Regardless of whether his sudden disappearance was due to guilt or fear, I think our best way of finding the guy is through his family. We're going to stake the address out."

His figure blurred as he darted to her side, a wide, almost manic look on his face that was mere inches from her own. "Blanche Wilhelmina Bennett," he began, setting a hand on her shoulder.

"How do you know my middle—"

"Sh-h-h!" he shushed her, putting a finger to her lips. "I've been waiting for this day to finally come." Staring intensely into her eyes, he said, "In preparation of this event, I've made the perfect stakeout mixtape—I hope you like Ghostface Killah and the Clan."

"Ghostface what now?" She blinked. "Are you even speaking English?"

He bowed his head in respect. "Rest in peace, O.D.B."

Rolling her eyes, she batted his hand off her shoulder and motioned to pass him. She paused as her gaze pulled from him and cast over his shoulder, a familiar head of slate hair capturing her attention.

A boy walked along the sidewalk with his back turned towards them, the light breeze playing with the ends of a black cord that was knotted behind his head—perhaps securing an eyepatch? She watched as he rounded the corner, turning his head towards her and making brief eye contact before disappearing behind the building. Her entire body stiffened.

Were her eyes playing tricks on her?

She removed her keys from her pocket and handed them him. "You go ahead to the car. I'll join you shortly," she said, not even giving him a second look as she made her way in the direction the boy had gone.

"O—kay," he called after her, drawing the word out slowly as he watched her retreating figure.

She turned the corner and spotted the boy halfway down the block, continuing along the sidewalk before he disappeared between a pair of buildings. Moving at a slight jog, she followed him and found herself at the mouth of an alleyway, greeted by nothing but damp pavement and worn dumpsters. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

Cautiously, she stepped into the alley, the heels of her boots clicking against the filthy concrete. Skimming her surroundings, she observed the eight foot fence that blocked off the end of the alleyway and wondered where the boy could've possibly disappeared to.

 _Or was there ever a boy?_

She quickly dismissed the thought. She knew what she saw, and she refused to put her mental state into question. The alternative would be to believe that she had been following a figment of her own imagination.

Then again, to believe that the boy had been real was to also acknowledge that her dream from the other night had also been that—real. And that was something her logical mind was even more unwilling to do.

A small scrape interrupted her from her internal ramblings and she found herself staring at one of the dumpsters. Puzzled by the sound, she began to slowly approach the steel container, compelled to investigate its source. A loud rustling drew her attention overhead, and she paused in her steps.

A black cloud of ravens poured across the sky like an ominous veil, their feathered wings churning and beating the air whilst filling it with maddening cries. In shock, she staggered back, her eyes wide as she watched the seemingly endless torrent of birds spiralling above.

"W-what is this?"


	12. Carlisle

The bistro was filled with the muted chatter of the lunchtime crowd, their laughter intermingling with a cacophony of flatware clinking against plates and gentle piano music. In a corner, seated by a window that looked over Park Avenue and the bustling New York crowd, Blanche was reading through a menu across from a man whose distinct features betrayed their familial relation.

"I took one of my clients here last week, and they highly recommend the Cobb salad," he stated, his eyes remaining fixed on the leather-bound menu in his hands.

Dressed in a single-breasted made-to-measure suit, with his grenadine power tie fashioned into a bold Windsor knot, Carlisle Bennett looked as if he had walked straight out of a GQ magazine cover, ready to take on his role as the quintessential courtroom shark that he is revered for throughout the five boroughs. His silvery locks were swept back and to the side, classically styled, and his steel grey eyes looked out into the world with a confidence that women desired and men wanted to emulate.

That autumn day, the golden boy and eldest amongst the Bennett children had managed to find some time out of his egregiously busy schedule to have lunch with her, who had fared a five hour flight and the chaos of a typical New York traffic jam in order to sit across from him at that table.

"Have you thought about which law schools you'll be applying to?"

Blanche tensed slightly, peering at him from over the top of her menu. She knew the topic would've come up eventually, but she was caught off guard by his abruptness, still too fatigued from the stressful journey.

"Straight to the point as always," she remarked, crossing her legs as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I actually haven't gotten around to it yet."

"It's not like you to procrastinate." He brought his gaze to her, an eyebrow raised in query. "Sterling was booking campus tours by now, and we both know he's not exactly diligent."

"From what I can remember, Sterling was scoping out campuses so he could compile a list based on partying potential and level of cute girls attending—he was hardly doing it for the right reasons," she muttered dryly, before continuing in a quieter note. "But in regards to law school, there's some things I really need to think over."

"What's there to think about?" He closed his menu and set it off to the side. "You got a near perfect score on the LSATs; that's your golden ticket to getting accepted into any of the top-tier law schools in the country," he stated, then furrowed his eyebrows as she averted her gaze. "Unless," he began, "that's not what you want."

"Of course it's what I want," she scoffed, but he seemed thoroughly unconvinced.

"Blanche, I'm not going to be offended if you tell me you don't want to be a lawyer," he bluntly stated. "It's hard work, long hours, and you're surrounded by cutthroat career climbers that won't hesitate to destroy you at any given opportunity. It's about getting ahead of the game and climbing over each other to get to the top, because the only other option is to burn out and stagnate."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Even if that was the case, you wouldn't be the one I'd be worried about offending." She took a drink of her water, the ice rattling against the glass. "Although I have to say, you're giving me a lot to look forward to," she said playfully. "With how toxic you make it out to be, I'm surprised you love it so much."

"Because I like to win, and I'm good at it." He flashed a smirk. "You don't see a coach taking their star player out of the game because the other boys don't play nice."

She let out a hum of amusement, giving him a knowing look before turning her gaze back to her menu. "You know, mom and dad would have your head if they knew you were trying to scare me out of law school."

"I'm just making sure you know what you're getting into. This isn't like when we were kids—piano lessons, private tutors—this is real life. I don't want you following the path our parents chose for you and regretting it years down the road when you're in too deep to turn back." He wore a firm expression, which faltered slightly as he proceeded in a gentle tone. "But I'd be lying if I said I wanted to see my sister harden into a soulless harpy in a pantsuit—and believe me, I've seen it happen more times than I can count."

She glanced up at him from her menu, smiling. "I'm touched by your concern, but I assure you, I have every intention of keeping my soul right where it is," she said, then sighed. "As for why I haven't been applying to any law schools, I'm still debating on whether I want to go to a school that focuses more on constitutional law or corporate law, and I've been caught up with rankings and the direction I want my career to take."

He eyed her suspiciously and rightfully so—it was a good excuse but one that she knew he wouldn't be satisfied with. In truth, she wasn't sure what she wanted to do. While she had a deep appreciation for the law, she didn't think that she would feel fulfilled as a lawyer, especially so when she would be entering into an industry her family had so much influence over. She didn't want to be yet another lawyer to the Bennet brand.

He stared at her intently as if gearing himself to call her out, when his attention focused elsewhere. Blanche turned to follow his gaze to a woman that was casually approaching, clad in a figure-hugging little black dress, which proudly flaunted her shapely physique. She was a stunning olive-skinned beauty, with loose chestnut curls that framed her angular features and drew attention to her striking hazel eyes, rimmed with long, dark lashes.

"Carlisle Bennett," the woman acknowledged as she reached their table, her full, pink lips curved into a pleasant smile.

He raised an eyebrow, wearing a faint smirk as his eyes did a once over of her. "I'm sorry, but do I know you?"

"Rebecca Reynolds," she introduced herself, her hand leaving her clutch to extend in greeting.

Blanche's gaze shifted between the pair before returning to her menu, fighting back the amusement that threatened her placid expression. She was use to women flirting with her brother and vice versa, but she had also borne witness many a time to the aftermath of his womanizing; she only hoped that this particular instance wouldn't end in their lunch being ruined, and his drink splashed across his chiseled face and Tom Ford suit.

"It doesn't ring a bell, and I'm sure I would remember someone like you," he said in his usual charming manner as he continued to eye her. "Have we met before?"

"Briefly, but you're probably more familiar with my sister."

The sudden coldness in her tone drew Blanche's attention back to the woman, the breath catching in her throat as she was met with a gun pointing directly at her brother. Before she could react, Carlisle raised his hand to keep her silent, his eyes remaining on the woman who held him under her hardened gaze. Their secluded spot in the restaurant had prevented the surrounding patrons from taking notice, and it was clear that he was trying to keep it that way.

"Well, you certainly have my attention, Ms. Reynolds. What can I do for you?" he asked stiffly.

"Two months ago, you defended a man named Dennis Klein, a commodities trader for Whitman Stewart Capital Partners—"

"The People of the State of New York V. Klein," he stated with a nod of recognition. "Judging from your last name, I assume you're related to the plaintiff?"

"Yes, Sarah Reynolds. She was my sister."

"Was?"

"She committed suicide last week."

"I'm sorry to hear."

"I don't want your condolences, I want justice." She shook her head, her words low and rumbling with anger. "That man raped my sister, and you helped him get away with it."

"I didn't help him get away with anything. It was a fair trial, and the jury found him not guilty."

"Only because you manipulated them against her," she said in an accusatory tone. "I was there in court that day when you put my sister on the stand. You twisted everything she said and made her look like a liar."

"I didn't make your sister look like a liar, Ms. Reynolds. She did that to herself when she lied in her testimony. All I did was make sure that the rest of her claims checked out, which is what any lawyer would've done."

She scoffed, her eyes narrowing. "Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep easy at night? You lawyers are all the same, nothing but bullies in expensive suits," she said in disgust. "The only thing my sister lied about was her past arrest, and that was because she knew it would've been used against her in court."

"Regardless of her reasoning, she still lied under oath."

"That arrest happened years ago, and it wasn't even relevant to the case."

"Then why lie if it was irrelevant?"

"Carlisle, stop," Blanche muttered, seeing that her brother was only agitating the woman further.

He glanced at her before his focus returned to the armed woman, his eyes combative. "What do you you want from me, Ms. Reynolds? If you truly wanted me dead, you would've shot me by now."

"What do I want?" she asked, looking manic as she stared at him. "I want you admit that Dennis Klein raped my sister and that you helped him get away with it. I also want you to take responsibility for my sister's death."

Blanche watched as his jaw tightened, as if preparing himself for a fight. "Carlisle," she whispered, interrupting him before he could speak. "Just give her what she wants. This isn't about being right, this is about walking out of this alive."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said firmly, his eyes remaining glued to his assailant. "I'm not going to admit to something that isn't true."

"Carlisle, please," she quietly begged.

"All evidence pointed to Mr. Klein's innocence, and I did my job as his lawyer to fairly represent that in court. You can blame me all you want for your sister's death, but my conscience is clear, so if you're going to shoot me, then shoot. I'm not going to bend to your threats simply because you can't accept the truth."

The peaceful ambience of the restaurant disfigured into chaos as the air filled with the sound of frenetic scrambling and terrified screams. Her brother turns his head to her with a stunned expression on his face, and with a tremulous hand to his chest, he lurched to the side. He hit the floor with a loud thud and rolled onto his back, gasping with every breath that he took as he struggled to get enough air into his lungs.

"Carlisle!" Blanche cried out, eyes wide with panic as she threw herself out of her seat. Kneeling beside him, she pulled back his suit jacket, the pit of her stomach filling with dread as a rush of blood rolled from the hole in his chest and soaked into his shirt. "No, no, no, no," she muttered, shaking her head.

Without a moment to spare, she pulled her scarf from her neck and gathered the material in her hand, then pressed it firmly against the wound. From this, his breathing seemed to slightly improve, which offered little relief as blood continued to soak into the fabric at a concerning rate. In the background, a man's voice could be heard frantically talking with an operator over the phone, but she could make out very little of what he was saying through her panic.

"B-Blanche—"

She shushed him, a hand resting comfortingly on the side of his head. "Stop talking. Just focus on breathing," she whispered shakily, her thumb stroking his temple. "Help's on the way. Just hang in there."

"They won't make it in time," he grunted, his eyes beginning to drift shut. "There's too much blood."

"Look at me—look at me!" she snapped, firmly tapping his cheek until his eyes fluttered back open. "Keep your eyes on me, okay? Under no circumstances do you look away or close them," she instructed, staring down at him as she fought back tears. "You are going to be fine."

He had a hopeless look in his eyes that scared her to her very core. Being the ever confident and strong-willed sibling, this was the first time that she had ever seen him look so vulnerable. It was as if he knew something that she had yet to accept.

"Okay," he whispered with a small nod. He set his hand over hers as she continued to apply pressure to the wound, shaking as much as she was.

A harsh cough escaped his throat and blood sprayed from his mouth, coating his lips and teeth with a film of red. She could feel a sickening warmth underneath her fingers as his blood soaked completely through the fisted fabric, clinging to her skin and filling her nostrils with its definitive metallic scent. She let out an involuntary whimper.

"You're going to be okay," she said, unsure of whether she was trying to reassure herself or him. Her tears spilled over, and he let out a weak chuckle.

"Don't cry," he muttered between laboured breaths, giving her hand a light squeeze. "It doesn't even hurt, I promise."

She sniffled and nodded, despite not believing him. As she opened her mouth to speak, his eyes once again fell shut, giving her pause. With panic beginning to seep into her features, she took hold of his shoulder and tried to shake him awake.

"Carlisle, look at me," she ordered, but no response. His grip on her hand loosened, and her heart sank. "Look at me!" she cried out, her voice raised as she continued to desperately shake him. "Wake up, Carlisle! Wake up!"

"Bennett! Bennett, wake up!"

Marcus' voice reached her ears and dragged her back to consciousness, his grip firm as he frantically shook her by the shoulder. With his arm wedged beneath her, he lifted her from the cold concrete, elevating her upper body.

"Bennett!" he called, his tone slightly raised.

Her eyes cracked open and she was met with her partner's concerned face staring down at her. Startled, she bolted upright and winced as a sharp pain shot from the back of her skull, her fingers tracing over a sizeable goose egg as a hand went to investigate the injury.

"Woah, take it easy!" He set a hand between her shoulder blades, supporting her in case she fell back. "You were passed out. Give yourself a minute to recover."

"Passed out?" she murmured, a light crease forming between her brows as her hand continued to cup the back of her head. "Wha-what happened?"

The last thing she could remember was those harrowing squawks as the sky flooded with ravens, swarming overhead like a plague of locust.

"I don't know, I just found you like this. You were taking a while, and when you weren't answering your phone, I went looking for you." He rose to stand, hand cautiously hovering behind her while keeping himself bent at eye-level to her. "Are you able to get up?"

"I believe so," she said, accepting his hand as he extended it to her. She allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, steadying herself against him before she said, "I think I'll be fine to walk too."

"You're sure?" he asked, and after been given a nod of confirmation, he took a step back. With watchful eyes, he followed her closely behind as she began to make her way towards the sidewalk. "You know, it's a good thing some kid pointed you out to me; otherwise, it probably would've taken me a while to find you. What were you doing here, anyway?"

She froze at the opening of the alleyway. With her mouth slightly agape, she turned to him and asked, "What did you just say?"

"What were you—"

"No, the other thing," she interrupted, shaking her head. "You said there was a kid."

He blinked, the confusion evident on his face. "Yeah, he flagged me down just as I was rounding the corner—is everything alright?" He cocked his head to the side.

"Everything's fine, I just…." Her voice trailed off, knowing full well how crazy she must've looked, but she had to confirm for herself. "Think carefully, Marcus," she began, wearing a serious expression. "What did the boy look like?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up in thought. "Uh, twelve-thirteen years old, five feet tall, slender build," he listed off, then shrugged. "To be honest, he disappeared so quickly, I wasn't able to get a good look at him."

"Did he have an eyepatch?" she asked, the question taking him by surprise.

"What?"

"Did he have an eyepatch?" she firmly reiterated, pinning him under her focused gaze.

Marcus' brows furrowed. "Actually, yeah," he said, visibly puzzled by her line of questioning. "What's going on? Are you sure you're okay?"

She nodded, but in truth, felt a sickness rise from her belly. She wanted to brush it off as a mere coincidence, but it seemed too convenient of an excuse for something so remarkably parallel.

That boy was the mirror image of the one in her dream—if she could even call it a dream at this point—and while his confirmed existence was validation that she wasn't going insane, it still raised so many questions.

She thought back to those red eyes and a chill ran through her. She suddenly didn't want to spend another second standing there.

"Bennett?" His tone grew worried. "It seems like you hit your head pretty hard. Do you need me to take you to the hospital?"

"I'm fine," she said dismissively, her arms crossing. "Let's just get going. We have a lot to do today."

He seemed ready to protest but gave pause as she stared intensely at him, wordlessly urging him to drop the subject. After a brief staring match, he tore his gaze away from her and sighed, reluctantly nodding.

"Fine," he mumbled. "But I swear, you're going to give yourself a stroke one of these days from working so hard."

"I'll take my chances." She wore a faint smile, relieved that he didn't press the matter any further—she wouldn't have known where to begin with her explanation.

Turning ahead, she stepped out of the alleyway and began to make her way down the sidewalk, Marcus walking alongside her. As they reached the corner, she felt a slight pull on her hair as her partner freed something from the silvery locks. She looked at him in confusion.

"Sorry, you had something in your hair."

Blanche swallowed, staring at Stygian feather as he held it up between his thumb and forefinger, reflecting light like a piece of carved onyx. She reached over and took it from him, twirling it between her fingers as a memory rushed into her mind.

She remembered laying on the cold concrete, staring at the canopy of birds when two figures loomed over her, the grey sky behind them casting them in silhouettes—a boy, and a man.


	13. Kali Ma

Blanche felt her eye twitch from exhaustion. She sat behind the steering wheel of the parked car, her gaze focused on a small house, which nestled in a row of equally modest properties. The home was dark, save for a soft glow that peeked through the curtains of a second story window—the master bedroom, she assumed, based on the late hour and the age of the children residing.

She looked to her partner in the passenger seat. He was sitting in a relaxed position, his lips moving rhythmically as he mumbled along to the rap music playing lowly on the stereo. His head nodded indiscernibly while his fingers drummed at the dashboard, and without missing a beat, he offered her a potato chip from the bag he had been grazing from. She silently declined.

They were approaching the ninth hour of the stakeout, and it would be yet another hour until a pair of uniforms arrive to relieve them. She had expected the novelty to have worn off for her partner within the first couple hours of the operation, but he appeared as enthusiastic as when they had started. Meanwhile, she was mentally drained, and was beginning to reach her limit for how much rap music she could stand.

The glow of red tail lights brought her attention forward, and there, in the dimly lit street, a taxi pulled up in front of the house. She brought a hand to the stereo and dialled down the volume, her eyes trained on the vehicle as she inclined in her seat.

"Who could that be at this hour?" Marcus muttered, setting aside his bag of chips.

A few minutes passed before the cab drove away, leaving behind a lone figure standing on the sidewalk. It was a man, tall, with short, dark hair and a trimmed beard, his shirt marred with stains. He gazed longingly at the house for a moment before his head darted around nervously, his wide eyes skimming over the detectives without pause as he surveyed his surroundings. He was unable to see them through the tinted glass, nor was he able to discern their car amongst the others parked on the street.

She glanced down at the picture taped to the dashboard. "That's him. Let's go," she said, reaching for the door handle.

They climbed out of the car and started towards the man, walking at a brisk pace. He whirled at the sound of their footsteps before stumbling back, frightened by the sight of them approaching. A loud clatter punctuates the air as he bumped into a trashcan, nearly knocking it over.

"Rajesh Kumar," she said as they drew closer. "I'm Detective Bennett with the Seattle P.D. We need to ask you a few—"

He grabbed the trashcan lid and tossed it at them, the heavy metal connecting with Marcus' arm with a clang as he batted it away. Using that as a distraction, the man quickly fled.

"Why do they always run?" she sighed, bolting after him. "Police! Stop!"

Her eyes trained on his retreating figure as he barrelled down the street in blind panic. The man was surprisingly fast and already had a lead of several lengths over them, his arms and legs pumping like pistons. As her feet pounded against the pavement, she could hear Marcus' voice shouting into a radio as he lagged a short distance behind.

"Unit eighth-three-six, chasing male, Indian, on foot, white shirt, black pants. Headed North on Sixteenth Ave Northeast towards Northeast Ravenna Boulevard."

The man pushed past a teenager who was in the middle of walking his beagle, sending the boy into the hedges and the dog into a barking frenzy. She narrowly missed the animal as she sprinted past, leaving behind her partner, who stumbled trying to avoid the hysterical hound. Drawing on all her strength, she willed her legs to go faster, her strides longer, her feet hitting the concrete harder. She started gaining ground.

He rounded the corner, a fence obscuring him from view. It was then that a loud scream erupted from the opposite side of the barrier, and as she reached the end of the block, she turned and was met by the man laying on the sidewalk. He was on his stomach, hands on either side of his face. Before he could scramble to his feet, she dropped down and pinned him to the ground.

"Please! I didn't mean to kill him!" he shouted through sobs. "I don't know how it happened!"

Blanche hid her shock behind a stoic expression but couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did he just confess to killing his friend?

She wrenched his arms behind his back. "Rajesh Kumar, you're under arrest for the murder of Vik Sreejit," she said, reaching for the handcuffs at her waist.

Marcus slowed to a stop, placing his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. "Go team," he panted, watching her secure the handcuffs around the man's wrist.

The man's sobs continued as she patted him down, ignoring his incoherent pleas. He was blathering in a mangled mixture of English and his native tongue, and as her hands felt along the length of his arms, it became all too apparent that the stains on his shirt were dried blood. Moving onto the legs, she paused.

"He's hurt," she called out.

"How bad?" Marcus edged closer, his brows knitting together. His eyes followed to where she was staring, and upon seeing the injury, he let out a surprised yelp. "Is that a…?" He hesitated to continue his sentence.

An ornate silver handle protruded from the man's calf, gleaming under the light of the street lamps. It was tapered, impressing directly above the joint, and the surface was etched with an intricate pattern of interlacing vines. It took a moment for her to register what she was looking at, but when it came to her, she parted her lips disbelief.

"It's a butterknife."

—

Blanche stood under the glare of fluorescent lights, the low buzz flooding her ears like a swarm of insects. The room was finished in sterile white tile and was permeated by the stench of bleach and antiseptic. Steel hatches lined the wall opposite to her. An occupied autopsy table was situated at the centre of the room, a white sheet covering its subject. She was in a morgue.

Her legs moved without her conscious consent, carrying her towards the table with leaden steps. She felt drawn to it, compelled by her own morbid curiosity. The blood roared in her ears as she reached a nervous hand to the sheet, her eyes remaining on the shrouded form. Swallowing, she pulled back the sheet to reveal the face. It was Carlisle. He laid there as if sleeping, but his skin was ashen and green hued under the flickering overhead lights.

A hand brushed his forehead, and his eyes shot open. He seized her wrist with an iron grip, and Blanche, staring down at the reanimated corpse, could not repress a gasp. She tried to pull free, but his grip only tightened, the chill of his fingers stinging her flesh. He strained her closer, a strangled noise escaping his throat as his pale lips cracked open.

"D-d-devil," he rasped. "He's the devil."

Blanche bolted upright, staring out into the darkness, her eyes still blinded by the vividness of her dream. Her chest heaved with laboured breaths as she gripped the linen sheets, the goosebumps dimpling the bare skin of her arms. She glanced to the digital alarm clock. Two o'clock in the morning. She had only been asleep for a couple of hours.

Reaching a hand to her head, she dragged her fingers through her hair and pushed away the strands that clung to her damp temples. The dream felt real. So real that she could still feel her brother's biting grip around her wrist. She tossed aside the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, deciding to splash some water on her face.

A sound then froze her in place. It came from somewhere outside of her room, low murmurings that were so brief she wondered if she had imagined them. Her eyes trained on the door. Another hushed whisper.

She tugged the drawer of her nightstand and felt along the bottom until her fingers closed around the handle of her gun. Then, flipping off the safety, she set off a purposeful pace towards the door, pausing for only a moment to listen for movement. There was only silence.

She eased the door open and stepped out into the empty quiet of the hallway, the cold air prickling her skin. The floor was like ice against the soles of her feet, and as she made her way down the corridor, the temperature increasingly plunged. An unsettling sensation rippled through her body as she reached the great room, the sound of shifting paper drawing her attention to the sitting area. There a small silhouette stood, facing the window and backlit by the city skyline.

"Good evening, Detective Bennett."

The glacial sternness of his voice was enough to cause her hairs to stand on end. She took a few steps towards him while lifting her gun, pointing it at him as he kept his back to her.

"Smile," she said calmly despite her heart thrashing against her chest. "But that isn't your real name, is it?"

"No, it isn't."

He peered at her from over his shoulder, his sapphirine eye gleaming with a nocturnal sheen. She stopped in her tracks. It was clear to her that whatever he was, he wasn't human. He _couldn't_ be human, as absurd as that may sound. And once the thought had entered her mind, it became fact.

"What are you?" she asked in an almost whisper, weapon still at the ready.

"I wouldn't bother with that." He swept his gaze to the gun. "Your bullets would be wasted on me," he said, his expression unnaturally placid. "As for what I am, that is of no concern to you. You wouldn't believe me even if I did tell you."

He turned his body to completely face her, his form partially lit by the glimmering buildings. He was wearing a sweater vest and tie, his wool shorts cropped just above the knee. In his hands was an open folder, but from where she was standing she couldn't see its contents.

"Try me." Undeterred by his words, she kept her gun levelled. "I've seen some things I can't explain, so I'm willing to consider just about anything."

"All you need to know of me is that I mean you no harm."

"You say that, yet both of our encounters have led to me being unconscious," she remarked, her eyes narrowing slightly. "So forgive me if I'm just a _touch_ skeptical."

The boy's patience waned, and a crease began to form between his brows. He huffed a sigh. "I don't have time for this. I've come to talk to you regarding Rajesh Kumar." He closed the folder and held it out to her. "And to bring you this."

She glanced down at the folder before lifting her gaze to his, watching him like a cautious doe. He had an overwhelming presence, but nothing about him made her feel particularly unsafe—just nervous. Although, she wondered if her unusual sense of security was due to his childlike appearance. It was hard to be frightened by a child so doll-like, with skin like porcelain and lashes like silk fans.

"What is it?"

"Something that will prove useful to your investigation."

The tension was thick and suffocating. They stared at each other for a moment as if gauging the other's thoughts, and after what seemed like an eternity, she gathered the nerve to reach over and snatch the folder from his hand. Giving him a wary look, she reluctantly lowered her gun before her focus shifted onto the folder.

At once the room was flooded with light, and startled, she whipped around to find a masked figure standing beside a table lamp. A pair of bulbous gold orbs leered at her, set between enraged eyebrows and a wide, jutted nose. The mouth was stretched into a scowl, baring fangs that were in the same metallic colour as the eyes.

A wave of recognition washed over her, and she turned her head to a far wall where a collection of Japanese theatre masks hung as decoration. They ranged from the white face and ruby-painted lips of Wakaonna and the rounded blushing cheeks of Okame, to the emaciated face of Yase-otoko. But there was one missing: the Shikami mask.

Blanche returned her gaze to man who remained at his spot opposite to her, the glowering crimson face contrasting with his monochromatic black suit. She looked into the dark pits as pupils, and a shiver scales her spine like rippling fingers to a piano. He had a heavier presence than the boy, cloying and thick, wrapping around her and constricting her lungs.

"Who's your friend?" Blanche stiffly asked, vaguely aware of the slate-haired boy as he came up beside her.

"Pay him no mind. He won't hurt you," he said in a bored note, betraying his lack of enthusiasm for his companion.

His words did nothing to ease her apprehension, although she did appreciate the presence of light. Inhaling deeply, she forced her attention to the folder and flipped it open to the first page. A few lines were redacted by scorch marks, likely to conceal the report's originators; at the slightest disturbance, they crumpled away into impossibly neat bars, as if carved out by a precision knife.

Pushing past the surprise, she focused on the contents. "This is a lab report," she muttered, brows furrowing as she leafed the pages. "But why are you showing this to me?"

"On the night of his murder, the head chef was working on a new dish for the restaurant. According to some members of his staff, he was planning to incorporate the spices he had procured during his visit to India," he explained. "He claimed it would be a curry unlike anything served at competing establishments."

Blanche nodded slowly, wondering where he was going with this. Her eyes unconsciously strayed to the masked man before quickly refocusing on the documents, another shiver trickling down her spine. She had a sense that whoever it was behind that mask was amused.

"One of the spices he had brought home with him was Kali Ma. It is a forbidden spice in India that is rumoured to react to the dark desires within the human heart. In reality, it is a powerful stimulant that causes hyper-aggression and reduced impulse control."

"I've never heard of such a thing." She frowned.

"Most people haven't. It isn't something that is commonly known in its country of origin, let alone the Western world," he said, watching as she slowly flipped through the pages. "Kali Ma was banned by the Raja of Bengal in the mid-nineteenth century, and many rulers across the country had followed suit; in most states, possession of it alone was punishable by death. It has since faded into obscurity, but the black market has been known to dabble in it as a sort of novelty."

Blanche was silent as she absorbed the information. She thought back to the crime scene and to the pouch she had found on the victim's body—to that aromatic black powder that neither she or her partner could identify.

Her eyes lingered on the documents for a moment longer before lifting to meet his gaze. "You think Mr. Kumar had this in his system at the time of offence," she stated rather than asked.

"I know he did," he said. "What you are holding is the results of the lab analysis on the food samples collected from the crime scene. And as you can see, one of those samples tested positive for Kali Ma."

"Samples—" Her jaw slackened, then tensed. "You mean you were…. But it's still an active…."

"Accessing the crime scene was a simple enough task, and one that hardly warrants such an expression," the boy said with an air of arrogance, his lips hinting at a smile. "But don't be too hard on yourself, Detective. With what passes for security in your lackadaisical little organization, it was only to be expected."

She gaped at him, fuming inwardly as she struggled to find her words. As a police detective, Blanche was no stranger to being an object of scorn and derision, but she somehow found his uninhibited criticism far less easy to swallow in comparison to the pig references and occasional spitting. With a huff, she turned her head indignantly and shook it, both at him and herself. Out of all the things to be shocked by, his casual disregard for the police and the integrity of the crime scene should be the furthest thing down her list.

Her face grew stern as a thought entered her mind, and after a moment's pause, she closed the folder and set it down on the coffee table. "Last night with Mr. Kumar…. That was you, wasn't it?" Her focus shifted between the two beings in the room. "Or at least one of you."

The boy stared at her, unblinking, his countenance indecipherable. "What does it matter? As a result, you were able to apprehend the man."

"It matters because he was injured, and not insignificantly either," she said chidingly. "Law enforcement are required to use _reasonable_ force to take a person into custody. There was nothing reasonable about what had happened to him."

"I found our actions to be quite reasonable. The man was attempting to evade arrest and may have been successful had we not intervened."

"It's not your job to get involved." She ticked off on her fingers. "There are rules, regulations, procedures that are in place to ensure public safety and police accountability. What you did not only puts my partner and me in a compromising position, it may even jeopardize the outcome of this entire case."

"A case which you would barely have had he been allowed to escape." The boy's expression remained stoic, as though he were unable or unwilling to consider her sentiment. "Considering the amount of time spent monitoring his home, would you have truly been willing to let your efforts go to waste, all for the sake of those senseless values?"

She stiffened at the implication of being followed but was not all that surprised by it. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would," she firmly said. "I have a responsibility to adhere to these principles, and I don't expect or need you to understand. Regardless, you can't just go around spearing people with silverware!"

The latter sentence sounded ridiculous to her, and she shook her head in disbelief at her own words. It was then that the reality of the situation came crashing down on her—this entire set of circumstances was ridiculous and would be unbelievable had she not bore witness to it with her decidedly sane eyes. But as real as it all is was, there still stands the question of whether this boy was to be trusted. She knew nothing of him, and even less of his eerie companion whose face remained a mystery behind the wooden mask.

Her eyes swept to the silent figure and she frowned. Why _was_ he wearing that mask? For what purpose did he have to conceal his face when the boy seemed unconcerned with hiding his?

"Then I have misjudged you," the boy said, bringing her attention back to him. "I was under the impression that you were different from all the other mindless police officers."

Her eyes narrowed once more. "Why are you doing this?" she bluntly asked. "Earlier you mentioned how limited your time was. Why waste any of it helping an organization you have so little regard for?"

"It is our civic duty to cooperate with the police, is it not?" he replied in a faintly mocking tone. "I am simply doing what I can to help you keep this city safe."

His answer infuriated her, though she knew not to show it. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, but before she could utter a response, he walked towards his companion as if to indicate he was finished with their conversation. Unwilling to be ignored, she started after him.

"Wait!" she called. "How do I know if anything you've told me is true? I mean, for all I know, you're lying to me, and those test results were forged."

Blanche had taken but a few steps forward when he stopped and pinned her a sidelong stare. She stood rooted in place, the surprise flitting across her features as his one blue eye shifted to red, and his pupil narrowed into a vertical slit.

"You don't, but whether you believe me or not is none of my concern," he stated. "That file contains everything you need for your investigation. Do what you want with it. Burn it if that suits you. Nevertheless, I've done what I came here to do."

She said nothing in turn. Her lips slightly parted as if wanting to press further, but she decided against it. There was something in his tone that suggested he had reached the end of his patience, and she knew then that he was not to be pressured. Instead, she redirected her gaze beyond him and to his companion, her hand extending.

"Then may I have my mask back?"

At her words, the boy shot his associate a piercing glare, but his expression remained neutral. The man stood motionless like a statue carved from onyx, and though it was impossible to tell behind the wooden veil, she could swear he was staring straight at her. The room was engulfed by a deafening silence, and after a tremulous moment, the man hummed in amusement, the quake of the deep-throated laughter causing her to tremble in horrified recognition. Her blood went cold. She knew that laugh.

Paralyzed by shock, she could only look on as the man started towards her with purposeful strides, his shoes echoing along the tile floor. She found that even his movements were telling—poised, graceful, and deliberate. Her breath hitched as he stopped just inches from her, bracing herself for the reveal as he moved to lift the mask from his face. It was not who she expected.

He was a relatively aged man, with jet black hair that was slicked back to present a high forehead and an aquiline nose. Thin lips were stretched into a shrewd smile, emphasizing creases that time had etched on his white skin. His eyes, like pigeon's blood rubies, shined with a devilish lustre and reflected his amusement as they bore into her.

"You seem disappointed, Detective Bennett," the man said, his voice clear and articulate. He placed the mask in her rigid hand. "Were you, perhaps, expecting someone else?"

Blanche shook her head and drew the mask closer to her body. "No," she whispered with a tremor of unease, eyeing him warily as she took a step back.

Of course it wasn't the butler. She felt silly for even thinking it.


	14. Curiosity Killed The Cat

**Author's Note:** My apologies for the wait, everyone! There were some major events going on in my personal life, and I didn't want to post until I was confident in my ability to deliver the same quality writing!

I am back, refreshed, and have so much planned for everyone! Cheers!

* * *

Blanche prepared dinner while the news played in the background, chopping an onion on the cutting board. Peering into the living room from her kitchen, she looked at the television and saw the young blonde reporter delivering a report on the Sreejit case, a photo of the late restauranteur appearing in the corner of the screen.

'Police have arrested and charged thirty-six year old Rajesh Kumar in relation to the death of Vik Sreejit, who was found dead in his restaurant Wednesday morning. Law enforcement are releasing very few details at this time, however…."

There was a pause in the sound of the knife against the cutting board as she reached across the counter for the remote control, turning off the television. A deep sigh escaped her lips as the condo was flooded with silence. The entirety of her work day had been spent dealing with that case, from interrogating the suspect and filing the paper work, to damage control.

It had been a nightmare trying to explain to her superiors how a _butterknife_ had wound up embedded in the man's leg. She and Marcus had been interviewed separately, and despite their corroborating stories, they were met with a great deal of skepticism—understandably, given they had no better explanation other than 'it was there when we arrived'. It wasn't until street cam footage was reviewed were they cleared of any wrongdoing, but now those involved were left wondering where the knife had come from, never mind how it was physically even possible. All they could determine through the lack of proper lighting and video quality was that the knife had shot down from an elevated trajectory.

Picking up the kitchen knife, she positioned the blade over the remaining half of the onion, resuming where she left off.

"Your fingers should be tucked."

She hissed, and the sound of metal against stone rang out through the room as the knife dropped against the countertop. Clutching her hand to her chest, she ignored the warm trickle of blood as it ran down the length of her index finger, and she spun around to face the intruder. Standing behind her was Jeremy, a manila envelope held at his waist.

"Jeremy?" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "What are you doing here?"

"And it seems that you've injured yourself," he sighed, ignoring her question. Setting the envelope aside on the counter, he held out a leather-clad hand to her. "If I may?"

Blanche eyed him apprehensively and remained still, the blood slowly soaking into the silk of her shirt. She held her tongue, fighting back the urge to retort with how her injury was at the fault of him startling her. He arched a brow as he kept his hand extended, but still, she didn't budge, undeterred by the forcefulness of his gaze.

"You'll ruin your blouse."

"It's already ruined."

Following a brief staring match, Blanche relented with a sigh, realizing there was little point to her misgivings. He was able to enter her home without detection and had demonstrated this ability at least once before; if he wanted to harm her, he would have.

She reluctantly offered her hand to him and watched as he produced a white handkerchief from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. He placed the folded square of fabric against her finger, applying pressure to the wound. By then, the pain was finally able to sink in, indicating just how badly she had cut herself.

"Fingers must always be tucked when using a knife," Jeremy informed. "Not only will it prevent you from injuring yourself, but it also allows you to use the joint of your finger to guide the blade."

Blanche averted her gaze as he spoke, feeling his eyes on her as he continued to press the wound. Her cheeks prickled with a flush of embarrassment, irritated by the small lecture, but thankful for the silence that soon followed. Looking past him, her eyes fell to the envelope on the counter, brows furrowing.

"What's in the envelope?"

"We will get to that in a moment," Jeremy said, lifting the cloth to inspect her finger. He made a small hum of disapproval as it continued to bleed, and he resumed applying pressure. "Where do you keep your first aid kit?"

"Ensuite bathroom, but there's really no—"

"Continue applying pressure to the wound," he instructed as he released her hand, promptly leaving the kitchen.

She stared at the doorway for a moment before exhaling deeply, looking down at her hand as she pressed the cloth against her cut. Blood had soaked through the white cotton, and she was bitterly reminded of her brother and that awful day—her vain attempt to stop his bleeding during his final moments. As if moving without awareness, she removed the handkerchief and watched as blood slowly flowed from the wound, dripping down the length of her finger like wax on a burning candle.

The handkerchief was plucked from her loose hold, only to be returned to her injured finger. She snapped from her daze to find Jeremy standing before her, eyes focused on her hand as he wordlessly resumed his task. He was seemingly unfazed by her odd behaviour, and as she stared at the older man with a strange sense of shame building up inside her, she wondered if his silence was due to pity or courtesy.

"Where's Smile?" she asked, breaking the uncomfortable quiet.

"He's at home."

"And where is that exactly?" she fished, earning a brief glance from him.

He lifted the handkerchief to check on the bleeding, and satisfied that it had stopped, he set aside the cloth and proceeded to open the first-aid kit on the counter. "What is it you're trying to figure out, Detective?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I'm just a curious person."

"Perhaps you are," he said with a light chortle, soaking a cotton ball with antiseptic. "But I'd be careful with that curiosity of yours."

"Why? Because curiosity killed the cat?" she raised an eyebrow.

His nose scrunched up in repulsion and lip curled back in annoyance. "I've always found that phrase to be in poor taste," he muttered as he began dabbing her finger with the cotton ball.

Blanche tensed up, forcing a placid expression as the antiseptic burned her cut. His eyes seemed to dance in delight as he watched her, and she couldn't help but wonder if he got some sort of sadistic enjoyment out of her physical discomfort. Outwardly, Jeremy looked harmless, and his voice had an almost grandfatherly quality to it that was disarming. His eyes, however, spoke of a darker nature.

"What are you?" she bluntly asked.

Long dark lashes hid his eyes as he lowered his gaze to his task. "Are you certain you'd like to know? There is a comfort in ignorance, one you may find yourself longing for when burdened with the truth."

"I tend to find a lot more comfort in knowing than not knowing."

"Even at the risk of your own sanity?"

A paralyzingly chill overcame her as his eyes once again met with hers, a glint of light flashing through the crimson irises like burning coals. She instinctively took a step back, feeling the edge of the counter press against her lower back.

She swallowed. "My sanity?"

"For some, the truth proves too much to bear, and unable to cope with their new reality, they soon find themselves drained of their mental faculties."

Blanche caught sight of the brief flash of fangs as he spoke, and her stomach turned. She was stricken but did her best not to show it, even as tendril-like shadows stretched out behind him, lapping at the walls—even as the room grew colder and air reeked of flowers and decay.

"Knowing that, do you still want that answer?" he asked, almost tauntingly. "Would the knowledge be worth it, even if it meant losing your mind?"

Jeremy waited for a response, but when none came, the corners of his lips quirked into faint, knowing smirk. The shadows retracted, and as if she had imagined it, the cloying weight of the air dissipated along with that sickly sweet stench. They stood in silence as he continued tending to her cut.

"You guys aren't…vampires, are you?" she asked, feeling silly as the words left her mouth. "I'm only asking because of the…." She trailed off, her free hand awkwardly gesturing to her mouth.

He looked surprised but soon chuckled. "We are most definitely _not_ vampires," he assured her as he finished bandaging her finger. "Those only exist in myths and legends, and are a product of man trying to explain creatures like us."

"And what would that be?"

Sounding vaguely amused, he asked, "Despite my warning, you aren't deterred?"

"I'm a homicide detective. I've seen things that will stick with me for the rest of my life," she said firmly as she looked him in the eye. "If my mind hasn't broken yet, I doubt whatever it is you're hiding under there—claws, teeth, horns—will do it."

"You seem so sure of that."

"I don't think there's anything scarier than what humans are already capable of."

Her jaw tensed as the man leaned closer, eyes studying her with a peaked interest. His mouth stretched into an almost wicked smile, and trying her best not to panic, she willed her breathing to stay at a normal pace. She felt him place something in her hand.

"I haven't encountered a soul like yours in a very long time," he said, his voice low and almost husky. "Another time, Detective."

Blanche blinked and found herself alone in her kitchen, Jeremy no where in sight. She stood in shock for a moment, trying to process what has just happened before she looked down at envelope in her hand. She tore apart the seal and pulled out a stack of photographs printed on glossy paper, the first being a picture of Lawrence Graham getting into the driver's seat of his red sedan.

Her brows furrowed as she flipped from one photo to the next, each one collectively showing the progression of the man starting his car and driving out of a parking lot. At the final image, her eyes fell to the timestamp in the corner. December 2, 2018 6:15 AM.

She reached for her cellphone on the counter and immediately dialled her partner. After two rings, she heard his voice on the other end.

"This is Chung."

"Marcus, how far along are we on those surveillance tapes?"

"Well, hello to you too," he said with playful sarcasm. "We haven't made much of a dent. There's a lot of cameras and a lot of footage to…." He stopped mid-sentence. "Are you seriously thinking about work when you're suppose to be taking it easy tonight? Don't you have Netflix or something?"

She ignored his remark and continued. "Are we able to prioritize footage between six and six-fifteen that morning?"

"Uh, sure." He sounded confused. "Can I ask why?"

"Just a hunch."

—

From a distance, beneath the barren branches of a tree, Blanche stood alongside her partner and watched as mourners grieved around a casket topped with flowers. The pastor concluded his monotonous sermon by calling upon the attendees to join him in a final prayer, after which the casket was slowly lowered into the ground.

Lawrence Graham was among the grieving, his face void of emotion as he dropped a rose into the open grave. He was beside a frail woman who wept quietly into a handkerchief, her tearful eyes sunken in and skin sallow. She looked as if the tiniest breeze could topple her, so gaunt that the weight of his hand seemed almost too heavy as he set it comfortingly on her shoulder.

"The cancer is apparently too advanced for chemo," Marcus mumbled as he shook his head disapprovingly, his lips tightening in mild disgust. "How can he stand there and play the supportive husband when he's got a woman tucked away in some secret love shack?"

"Something tells me Larry sleeps just fine next to his twenty-two-year-old mistress," Blanche stated dryly. "With his history of aggravated assault, burglary, and drug charges, his womanizing hardly comes as a surprise."

A rancorous caw sounded from above, and she tilted her head back to see a congress of ravens roosting upon the gnarled branches of the tree, previously barren. Their beady eyes and curved bills gleamed in the half-light that filtered down through the clouds. The sight unsettled her, and images of a sky blackened by iridescent wings flashed before her eyes, feathers rustling in her ears.

"The earl's here."

Marcus' voice snapped her out of her daze, and she returned her focus to the ongoing funeral. Her eyes pinned on the slate-haired man as he spoke to the bereaved couple, offering his condolences while wearing an appropriately somber expression. His butler stood dutifully at his side, a bouquet of snowy white lilies cradled in his arm. They looked so natural amongst the procession of mourners, yet stood out despite their black attire, reminding her of the blackbirds that came synonymous with graveyards.

She pondered as she glanced between the earl and Lawrence. "It's strange they're even associated with one another."

"Who, Graham and Phantomhive?"

Blanche nodded. "Isn't it, though?" she asked, a fine line forming between her eyebrows. "Funtom Corporation puts a lot of work into preserving their image through a cocktail of public relations and clever marketing, and they're incredibly selective on who they hire, even down to the retail level. Furthermore, the earl's personal life is exceptionally bland on paper—there isn't a whiff of scandal about him, which is practically unheard of in this day and age." She crosses her arms across her chest. "It doesn't make sense for someone so image conscious to allow himself to be affiliated with the likes of Graham."

"Maybe he didn't know who he was getting into bed with."

"I guess," she reluctantly agreed. "He just comes off as being so meticulous that an oversight like this seems out of character for him."

Her heart skipped a beat as garnet eyes locked with her own. Sebastian looked on at her with amusement, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he had heard her—impossible, given the distance. Stiffening, she gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement, and after staring at her for a few seconds more, he turned away.

"God, just fuck already," Marcus sighed theatrically, eyes rolling. "The sexual tension is so thick, you could cut it with a knife."

Her jaw went slack as her head whipped in his direction, staring at him incredulously. She arched a brow. "Come again?"

"C'mon, Bennett. That guy looks at you like he wants to eat you up."

"I…," she began, feeling the embarrassment creep up her neck. "Am not having this discussion with you."

"And you look at him like you don't know what to do with him."

"That is definitely not how I look at him." Flustered, she huffed an involuntary laugh. "And again, not having this discussion." She nodded towards the ongoing funeral. "Now focus."

"Alright, I was out of line," he said with a slight chuckle. Returning his gaze ahead, his lips then set to a frown. "Looks like we've been spotted."

Lawrence Graham came thundering towards them, his fists swinging at his sides like an enraged gorilla. He glared daggers at the detectives, his thick eyebrows beetled together and lip raised in a silent snarl.

"You people have a lot of nerve coming here. First you accuse me of murdering my own daughter, and now you show up at the funeral when we're all trying to grieve?" he growled. "You both should be out there trying to find the real killer, not wasting tax dollars harassing me and my family."

Marcus maintained a firm expression. "You've been a difficult man to get a hold of, Mr. Graham. We haven't been able to reach you through work or phone."

"No shit! In case you haven't noticed, I had a funeral to arrange," he spat angrily. "This is harassment. You two have no right coming here unannounced."

"Actually, my partner and I are well within our rights," Blanche stated matter-of-factly. "Need I remind you that you are a part of an ongoing murder investigation?" She was sure to raise her voice at the tail end of her sentence, then watched as the man tensed and glanced behind him at the concerned and confused gazes of the funeral attendees.

His eyes snapped to her. "Keep your voice down," he growled lowly. "What do you want from me, anyway? Didn't I answer all your questions?"

"You did, however, we have a few more." She was  
intentionally vague, not wanting to disclose the inconsistencies they had found in his alibi.

"I don't have time for this. I've already told you everything I know."

She stared firmly at him. "We can either do this here in front of your friends and family, or we can set up a time this week for you to come down to the precinct—your choice."

He glowered menacingly at her, hands shaking as they clenched tighter, looking as though he may lash out and punch her at any moment. Unintimidated by his threatening posture, she looked him in the eye as if daring him to strike. While Graham wasn't a very bright man, she knew that he wasn't enough of an idiot to assault an officer for a second time, especially in the presence of his friends and family. And if he was that stupid, then Blanche had no qualms about dragging him back to the station in cuffs.

"I'll come by tomorrow morning," he said through gritted teeth. "But right now, I need you both to leave."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Graham. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow." She turned to Marcus and nodded in the direction of her car. "Let's go."

As they made to leave, she took one last look at the funeral. Skimming the crowd, her gaze very briefly met with the earl's before she turned away, continuing towards the vehicle.


	15. Rabbits

**Author's Note:** Out of sheer curiosity, who do you personally ship in this story? Bleb or Phennett?

* * *

 _'He's the devil.'_

Carlisle's voice reverberated in her head as her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the sound of the running faucet. She leaned over her sink and looked hard at her reflection, watching the water drip down her face. Grey eyes stared blankly back at her through a splay of silvery lashes, the fine hairs weighted by thick droplets.

 _'He's the devil.'_

She shut off the faucet and reached for a nearby towel. Pressing her face into the terry cloth, she closed her eyes and tried to force the dream from her mind—the same dream she had dreamed on the night Smile and Jeremy payed her a visit. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights still lingered in her ears, and her wrist tingled from where her brother had gripped her. But that was all it was, a dream, and as she reminded herself of this fact, she felt silly for letting it affect her the way it did.

As she drew the towel away, a tickle formed at the back of her throat and she coughed. Her eyebrows furrowed as the sensation not only remained, but grew more intense, painful even. She began coughing into the bend of her elbow, desperately trying to clear her throat while her free hand turned the tap back on. There was something forming in her throat, sharp and hard, and as it grew, her coughs were punctuated by intermittent gags. In her blind panic, she knocked the glass into the sink as she reached for it, and it shattered into jagged points.

The foreign object began to work its way up her throat as she continued to violently cough, the sharp corners dragging against her pharynx, causing her eyes to water. She bent over the sink, hands gripping at the edge of the counter, knuckles white and veins raised. With a final cough, the object finally dislodged from her throat, and with it bile. It struck the sink with a metallic clatter, and as it settled onto the pile of broken glass, she stared at it in a combination of shock and horror. With a trembling hand, she picked it up and held it at eye-level, a deep blue emerald-cut stone set on an intricate platinum mount—It was Smile's ring.

Returning her gaze to the mirror, she somehow managed not to scream as Carlisle's reflection stood behind her own, his skin pale and mottled, and eyes glassy. The brown of dried blood stained the front of his shirt, and she could see the small hole from where bullet had punctured his chest. His lips cracked apart, and forth came a spew of viscous black fluid, contrasting against his white skin like ink on paper.

"He's the devil."

Raw terror rippled through her and she jolted upright, eyes wide and disoriented. She clutched the covers to her chest as it rose and fell with laboured breaths, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. Finding herself in bed, her gaze flew to the digital clock on her nightstand: two thirty-seven a.m.

Flopping back into the mattress, she huffed a sigh and dragged her fingers through her hair. After a dream like that, there was no chance of her going back to sleep.

—

Blanche stared down at the body of a security guard on the concrete floor, surrounded by unintelligible chatter that echoed throughout the warehouse from crime scene investigators and law enforcement. The harshly lit building held long rows of cardboard boxes stacked on steel shelves that reached the ceiling, each box stamped with a crest bearing the letter 'F' between a crown and ribbon: The Funtom Corporation logo. Standing next to her was her partner, his chin peppered with specks of stubble, likely from having to roll out of bed early.

Her face betrayed her exhaustion, eyes weighed down by tired bags. After having woken up, she abandoned the notion of sleep all together, opting to bask in the pale glow of her laptop until the predawn light filtered through her curtains and brightened into amber. In those hours she found herself in the lower recesses of the Internet, ancient catacombs of crude HTML coding and juvenile font that spoke of the existence of ghosts, ghouls, and everything in between—things she once would have dismissed as lured penny dreadfuls, now possible truths.

"Two shots to centre-mass and one shot to the head—somebody's thorough," Marcus said. He glanced from the corner of his eye at a second body a few paces from them, a forensic analyst photographing the remains. "Same injuries on the other victim too. Whoever did this probably just wanted them out of the way."

"I'm not seeing any shell casings. The killer must've taken those with them," she said as her eyes scanned the floor for a metallic catch. "M.E. puts time of both deaths between nine and ten-thirty last night, but we weren't called in until workers found the bodies an hour ago, suggesting no one heard the gunshots."

"Or no one bothered to call it in."

Her lips pressed into a firm line, and she tilted her head in disagreement. Pointing a finger towards the victim's forehead, she gestured a circle around the bullet wound. "There's a lot less charring then you would expect from point-blank range. Based on that, I think the killer may have used a silencer."

"Probably not looking at an amateur, then." Crossing his arms, he looked around at the towering columns of cardboard before his eyes fell to a large gap of missing boxes. "But all this for a bunch of stuffed rabbits? I've seen sloppier bank robberies."

"Why the rabbits, for that matter?" she asked, brows furrowing. "Out of all the things they could've taken, the Bitter Rabbits are probably the lowest valued item from their toy line. Retailing at twenty dollars a piece, I can't imagine they'd fetch a price on the resale market that would make it worth their while, let alone justify murder."

He lifted his brow in mild jest. "You think Santa's outsourcing this year?"

Blanche shot him a warning glance. She pivoted, scanning the area for anything they could have missed when a sudden yelp snapped her attention towards the main entrance. Like an ominous storm cloud rolling in from sea, the earl and his butler strode across the concrete floor, tailed by a flustered uniformed officer.

"Hey, you can't go in there!" the officer hollered.

Eyes widening, she quickly barked an order to cover up the bodies before she made her way towards the pair, walking at a hurried pace. Behind her, the forensics team scrambled to drape white cloths over the remains. She stopped right in front of them, blocking them from going any further.

"What are you two doing here?" she demanded.

"Well I do own the building, Detective Bennett," Ciel said with a lift of his eyebrow. "It's only natural that I'd come after learning of the events from last night."

"No, I mean what are you doing _here_?" Blanche reiterated. "This is an active crime scene. You can't just come waltzing in here."

The uniformed officer stepped forward. "I'm sorry, ma'am. They just barged through."

"Ma'am?" Marcus quietly muttered as he came up behind her, arms still crossed. "Why don't I get that kind of respect?"

Huffing a sigh, she briefly brought a hand to her forehead. "Marcus, you're in charge while I'm gone," she said, her annoyance not entirely masked. "And you two," she turned to Ciel and Sebastian, "need to come with me."

"Hear that, everyone?" Marcus grinned, pointing his thumb to his chest. "I'm in charge now."

Choosing to ignore her partner's lack of professionalism, Blanche walked alongside the earl as she escorted him and the butler towards the exit. Once through the door, she made her way across the parking lot and towards her car, wanting to put some distance between them and the team.

"I just want you to know that I could've had you both arrested in there," she said sternly.

"Then we will consider ourselves most fortunate that the detective is in a benevolent mood today," the earl replied with a hint of mockery.

Her brow creased in annoyance as she crossed her arms, hip cocked to the side. "Any idea why someone would go through all this trouble for some stuffed animals?"

"To be honest, I haven't the slightest clue." Ciel shook his head. "While Bitter Rabbit is our most popular item, one could hardly say they are worth murdering for. If someone wanted them that badly, there are much easier ways of obtaining them."

"That's what I was thinking too," she said as her gaze trailed to the unmarked building. "Outside of your employees, who else knows you own this place?"

"Not very many," he replied. "Mostly venders, a few suppliers…"

"I'm going to need a list of everyone who has access or knowledge of the building, as well as a comprehensive list of everything that's gone missing."

He glanced to his butler. "Sebastian will have those for you by the end of the day."

Her jaw tensed as her eyes locked with Sebastian's. "Okay." She nodded stiffly before her gaze settled back on the earl. "And I have to ask, but where were you two between the hours of nine and ten-thirty last night?"

"I was at the opera with the mayor and his wife," Ciel stated. "They were performing Don Giovanni."

Blanche reached down, retrieving the notepad from her belt and flipping it open. "Mayor—got it. That should be easy to confirm," she said, then returned her attention to the butler. "What about you?"

"I was paying a visit to an associate of mine."

Sebastian lips curved into a pleasant smile, one that despite its agreeable nature still made her stiffen. Head slightly tilted, she found herself staring at him for a few seconds too long before she cleared her throat, her eyes lowering to the notepad.

"I'm," the detective began, the forced deepness in her voice quavering at the end. She maintained a placid demeanour. "Going to need their name and contact information."

"I cannot disclose that, I'm afraid."

His answer took her by surprise. Having always been cooperative in the past, the man's refusal to disclose such seemingly trivial information was unexpected.

"You…can't disclose that?" Her brows rose. "Why not?"

"That, I also cannot say."

She batted her eyes in confusion, lips parting in disbelief. Staring at him, she searched her mind for a plausible explanation to his reticence when her eyes fell to the earl. A look of realization washed over her face, and her gaze fell back on Sebastian.

"May I talk to you for a moment?" She gestured her head to the side. "In private?"

Without waiting for an answer, she led the butler away from the earl and towards the far corner of the parking lot. Once there and out of earshot, she spun around to face him, and finding him much closer than she had anticipated, sucked a quiet gasp. She took a step back and saw that his smile slightly widened as she did so.

"Look," she firmly said, "it's important that I verify your whereabouts last night. I understand you might not want to say anything with your employer present, but as someone who has access to this building, I need to be able to place you away from it."

"I apologize, Detective, but I must stand firm," Sebastian said almost sympathetically. "For the time being, it would be in both of our best interests that I not say."

"You're serious?"

"Quite serious."

"This is a murder investigation. You understand how this looks, right?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Without a solid alibi, you'd be suspect to further investigation."

"I have no doubt that I will, Detective," he said as his eyes danced with amusement. "But being that I'm not the murderer, I put my trust in you that you'll be able to find the true culprit behind these senseless killings."

Blanche fell silent for a moment before breathing out a sigh. "Fine," she muttered begrudgingly, her arms crossed over her chest.

As annoying and inconvenient as it was, the butler was not a suspect—at least, not yet. His personal life was none of her concern.

Turning, she started back towards the earl, and as Sebastian she walked alongside her, she quietly asked him, "Off the record, you weren't doing anything illegal, were you?"

He huffed a slight laugh. "Am I detecting some concern?"

"No, I'm just trying to figure out why you're so adamant against telling me," she responded sharply, feeling her cheeks prickle with warmth. "The only thing that would make any sense is that you were doing something illicit and—"

"I wasn't."

She paused in her steps, her head turning towards him. Brows furrowing, her eyes searched his features for something, anything that might indicate he was telling the truth. Granted, she had always been good at reading people, but she found Sebastian to be near impossible to read—something he shared with his master. Strangely, however, she believed him.

Wordlessly, she nodded.


	16. I'm Listening

Blanche stood in the precinct break room, leaning back against the counter as she liberally spread some cream cheese on a warm bagel. Dropping the butterknife into the sink, she bit into her bagel and chewed slowly, savouring the flavour like she would a five-star meal. With an early start to her day and a double homicide to deal with, she hadn't found any time to eat. Tired and hungry, her body felt numb, as if operating on autopilot.

A mug of coffee came into view, and she lifted her head to see Marcus holding it to her. Uttering a quiet thanks, she accepted it and forced down the bitter brew, watching as he moved to pour himself a cup as well.

"What a morning," he groaned as he returned the pot to the coffee maker. "I can't believe the day isn't even over yet."

"Mhmm," she hummed in response, her voice echoing into the mug as she drinks. She managed a few gulps of the coffee before setting the cup down, a hint of a grimace on her face.

"So, what are your thoughts on this morning's crime scene?" he asked, taking a drink from his own cup. "With Funtom Corporation being our main link, do you think this and the Cutler case are connected?"

"I don't know about connected, but all of these incidents happening at one company does seem rather strange," she said before taking another bite of her bagel. After swallowing, she continued. "What I will say is that I don't think we're looking at the same killer."

He nodded in agreement. "Too different?"

"Like night and day."

She thought back to that day on the twenty-first of November—it had been windy and the beach, empty. She would never forget the smell of the salty sea air tainted by the stench of decay, nor the sight of Patrick Cutler's bloated corpse. The skin had blistered and turned a greenish black colour, and parts of his lips and eyes had been scavenged. The body had been found in such poor condition that it wasn't until the coroner's examination that the strangulation marks and defensive wounds had been found.

"In the cases of Patrick Cutler and Alessandra Graham, their murders were violent and rage-induced. While the causes of death were different, there was a similar ferocity in both attacks," Blanche said, picking up her mug. "But with this new set of victims, the murders were efficient and carefully executed. This wasn't hate, this wasn't personal—it was business."

She caught a glimpse of someone from the corner of her eye, and turned her head to see a uniformed officer standing beside her.

"Graham's lawyer is here," the officer stated.

She nodded and glanced to her partner, watching as he threw his head back to empty the remains of his mug. Lawrence Graham had arrived twenty minutes ago but refused to speak until his legal council had arrived. She dumped the dregs of her coffee into the sink, and after pursing her lips slightly at the half-eaten bagel in her hand, she tossed it into the trash.

As they made their way down the hall and towards the interrogation room, she reached into her back pocket as she felt her phone buzz. It was a text message from the earl.

 _The lists you requested will be ready at 7:00. Be by then._

While it was difficult to discern the tone in texts, Blanche couldn't help but feel like this was more of an order than a request. Putting her phone away, she turned her attention ahead and saw a man standing outside the interrogation room, briefcase in hand. Recognizing him, she held back a sigh.

 _Here_ _we_ _go_ , she thought.

"Matthew Tran—I thought I smelt something foul," Marcus spat before turning his head to Blanche. "Hey Bennett, are the garbage collectors on strike? Because it looks like somebody forgot to take out the trash."

"Please leave me out of this," she muttered.

"Hello, Detective Chung." The man tilted his head to the side. "So nice to see that they've finally given you a real badge. I guess it's about time you've graduated from the 'my first police kit.'"

Furrowing his eyebrows, Marcus cupped a hand to his ear. "Hang on, I think I hear something. Is that…an ambulance?" he said in a mocking tone. "Well, Matthew, I hope you brought your running shoes."

Blanche pinched the bridge of her nose as more insults were exchanged between the two. It was well known among the Seattle Police Department that Matthew Tran's long list of clients consisted of tax evaders, drug dealers, and the lowest denominator of society who could afford his fifty thousand dollar retainer. To Marcus, Matthew was both that and his 'mortal enemy.' She recalled him mentioning they were friends up until middle school, where a disagreement over a girl sent their friendship up in flames.

Marcus gasped. "You leave Mama Chung out of this!"

"That's enough, you two," Blanche said with a slight edge to her voice. "In case either of you have forgotten," she pointed to Matthew, "you have a client in there and—" she then pointed to Marcus, "we have an interview to conduct. So if you don't mind…."

Brushing past them, she turned the knob and held the door open, waiting for them to enter. As they passed her, she heard an exchange of underbreath bickering as both men attempted to force their way through the opening at once. She followed them in as they eventually squeeze through the doorway, refraining an eye roll. Lawrence Graham looked up from where he was sitting at the table, visibly confused by their unusual entrance.

Straightening the cuffs on his suit jacket, Matthew announced, "Detectives, my client is done here. Mr. Graham, you're free to go home."

Both detectives' heads snapped towards him, the shock visible on their faces. "What?" they blurted out in protest.

Lawrence rose to his feet, a faint smirk on his lips as he very pointedly made eye contact with Blanche. Wordlessly, he made his way to the door, giving a slight nod to his lawyer on the way out.

"My client is grieving. If you have any questions, you talk to me—not today, however. My schedule's just jammed packed with ambulance chasing," Matthew said sarcastically. "If you need to reach me, call my office. My receptionist will try to fit you in." He made to leave the room.

"Wait, you can't just do that!" her partner protested, causing him to stop at the doorway.

He arched a brow, looking at Marcus from over his shoulder. "Really? Because I'm pretty sure I just did." Then, eyes focusing on Blanche, he smiled at her in such a way that made her skin crawl. "Although, no hard feelings, Detective Bennett. Let me know if I can make it up to you over dinner."

Blanche fought back a look of revulsion. "No, thank you, Councillor," she said dryly. Once he was gone, she dragged a hand through her hair, eyes rolling shut. "What a waste of time."

"Fuck that guy."

—

Blanche ascended the front steps of the Phantomhive manor, feeling mentally drained from a combination of sleep deprivation and the long work day. She stood staring at the door for a moment, mentally bracing herself for the last bit of social interaction before she could retire for the evening.

Sucking in a breath, she pressed the doorbell and waited. She thought to the first time she approached those double doors and the inexplicable feeling of unease that filled her that day—a feeling that diminished but never truly left, despite her recent run-ins with the supernatural.

The doors swung open and she was greeted by Sebastian, who smiled pleasantly at her. Stepping aside, he motioned her in.

"Ah, Detective Bennett, you're right on time."

"Well, the earl did say seven." She shrugged off her coat as he extended his arm for it. "Is he home?"

"Yes, he's in the dining room," he said as he took the garment from her, moving to hang it on the coat rack.

She blinked. "I hope I'm not interrupting his dinner, then."

"Not at all." The butler raised an eyebrow as he turned back to face her. "It wouldn't be proper for a host to begin eating before his dinner guest has arrived."

"Guest—you mean me?" She shook her head, hands waving. "Oh, no, I can't stay. I'm just here to pick up those lists."

"Is that so?" Sebastian exhaled a sigh. "He had me cook such an elaborate meal while knowing full well we wouldn't be having guests," he said, head shaking. "And with so much to do and so little time….Such a cruel master I have."

While Blanche knew it wasn't her fault, she couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty. She supposed it was possible that there was some miscommunication between her and the earl, but in her gut, she knew that wasn't the case. Nevertheless, the thought of food did sound appealing. Having had nothing to eat that day but a few bites of a bagel, she could feel her stomach ache from hunger.

"I suppose I could stay for dinner," she said with some reluctance in her voice. She immediately regretted her words as a pleased expression crossed his face, almost too suddenly.

"Right this way," he said, and turning on his heel, he started to lead her further inside. As he walked he glanced back at her. "By the way, Detective, I've been meaning to ask…what exactly happened to your hand there?"

The question made her shoulders go tense. She glanced down at her hand where a bandage covered the length of her finger. A shiver trickled down her spine as the glow of Jeremy's red eyes flashed in her memory.

 _'_ _I haven't encountered a soul like yours in a very long time.'_

A soul like hers? What had he meant by that? And how long was long?

"Detective?" Sebastian's voice snapped her from her thoughts.

"O-oh, I, uh…." She cleared her throat. "Cut myself cooking dinner last night."

"It must've been quite a cut to require a bandage that size," he remarked, stopping in front of a set of doors. He glanced back at her, and with a touch of amusement in his voice, he said, "Though may I be so bold as to make a suggestion?"

"And what's that?" She arched a brow.

"Assuming you don't already do this, you might find it useful to tuck your fingers when using a knife. From my humble experience, it should greatly reduce your chance of injury."

She sucked in her lips, her brow creasing. Through her annoyance, she managed a small nod and a smile. "I will definitely do that. Thank you."

The corner of his lips tugged almost imperceptibly before he opened the doors to the dining room. Inside was a long table bordered by ornate chairs, the earl seated at the head. He wore a bored expression, his chin resting against palm as he propped his elbow on the table. Upon seeing them enter, he straightened, rising from his seat out of courtesy.

"Detective Bennett," the earl acknowledged.

She gave him a nod. "Earl."

There was a bout of awkward silence as they stared at each other, appearing as children forced into an unwanted play date. Clearing his throat, Sebastian broke the awkward quiet and continued down the length of the table. He pulled out the chair crosswise from the earl and looked at her expectantly, a coy smile playing over his lips. Once she was seated, the earl settled into his own chair.

"The appetizers will be out shortly," Sebastian said, and excusing himself with a bow, he crossed the room and went through the door from whence they entered.

She watched him leave before turning her attention to the earl. "Based on the impromptu dinner, I'm guessing you had something to discuss?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

He reached for a slip of paper that had been sitting next to him and unfolded it, setting it down between them. She paled upon seeing it, recognizing the impeccably neat cursive sprawled across the page.

 _No_ , she thought.

"That's my mother's handwriting—why is my mother writing to you?" she asked in a somewhat accusatory tone.

"Your parents have invited me to that banquet you mentioned a few days ago," he said plainly. "Most likely under to the pretense that we are some sort of item."

Blanche stared at him in stunned silence, her jaw slightly dropping. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks in both anger and embarrassment, and after a stewing in her shock for a moment, she raised a hand to her brow.

"Oh, good God," she breathed, eyes closing.

"Fortunately, I have some business to conduct in New York, and—"

Her attention shot back to him, eyes wide. "What do you mean 'fortunately'? You're not actually thinking of going, are you?"

"Well, we had an agreement, did we not?" he asked, raising his eyebrow. "I said that I would help you in exchange for you leaving me be that day, and irritatingly, you were true to your word." His gaze fell as he muttered under his breath, "Not that any of this is your fault, but rather, my poor choice of wording."

Her brow furrowed at this. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, and as the question left her lips, his sapphire-blue eye met and held hers.

A tense silence filled the air.

"He's bound by his word." A velvety voice spoke next to her ear, the words clear yet came through like a whisper.

Blanche nearly jumped in her seat, head turning to see Sebastian smiling at her, eyes lit with mirth. He set a dish of steak tartare before her, a bright yellow quail yolk nestled in the centre of a small mound of raw beef mince and capers. A light scent of truffle oil filled her nostrils. She glanced down at the food before her gaze returned to the earl, who glared at his butler with a look of sheer hatred.

"That's how an English gentleman is suppose to be," Sebastian said as he placed an identical dish in front of his master.

"Right," she said with a slight nod, not sure how else to respond. Unfolding the napkin, she placed it over her lap. "Okay, I'll humour you, Earl. Let's say you do go."

"There's no question about me going, Detective Bennett. The flight's already been booked."

She pressed her lips tightly together and blew air out of her nose. "Okay, so you're going. How does that help me, exactly?

"You don't want your family to think we're dating, but based on this invitation, it's much too late for that," the earl said. "We just simply break up."

"You'd have to be dating in order to break up." She briefly glanced to the butler as he popped the cork to a bottle of wine, noticing the faint smirk on his face.

He seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much.

"As far as they're concerned, we are."

"…I'm listening."


	17. Diable

Blanche traced her fingertips over the etched lettering as she knelt before the gravestone, the cold marble biting her skin. The air was nippy and a light snow fell from the leaden sky, sprinkling the city with a light dusting of white. She shivered as a small gust of wind hit the nape of her neck, unused to the chill of a New York winter.

It felt so surreal to her. Years had passed since her brother's death, but seeing his name chiseled across the mottled stone still felt like a nightmare she would soon wake from.

A shadow cast over her and the gravestone, and she turned her head to see Sterling standing behind her. A solemn smile broke across his face, his once fair complexion burnt tomato-red from the blazing tropical sun. In his hand was a wine bottle, much to her confusion.

"Were you waiting long?" he asked, to which she shook her head.

She rose to her feet, taking a step back to join him at his side. "What's the wine for?"

Wordlessly, her brother held it out to her, and as the weight of the bottle transferring to her hands, a wry hum of laughter escaped her throat at the familiar logo of plume-like vines encircling a curly monogram.

"Nineteen ninety Château Montrose," she said with an air of amusement. "This must've cost you a pretty penny."

"Carlisle always had expensive taste."

Another wry laugh. "He did like the finer things in life," she agreed, "but that doesn't answer my…." Blanche trailed off as he produced a small corkscrew from his pocket, and as he reached for the bottle, she instinctively held it at arms length away from him. "Sterling—open containers," she firmly reminded.

Sterling arched a brow, his hand extended expectantly. His eyes shifted before they fixed back on her, and smirking, he said, "I don't see any cops around."

She gave him a hardened stare. "No."

"Oh, come on, Blanche, live a little," he said. "I was just going to pour a little out for Carlisle. Don't you think he deserves a drink for having to be buried across from Great Aunt Clara? As stuffy as she was in life, I can't imagine how dull she is in death."

She stared at him for a moment before letting out a defeated sigh, reluctantly thrusting the bottle towards him. Then, as he began to drive the corkscrew into the cork, she glanced around the cemetery with her arms crossed, keeping an eye out for onlookers.

"Relax," he said nonchalantly as he glanced over at her. "Nobody's here."

"Just hurry it up."

The cork came loose with a little pop, and directing her attention back to her brother, she watched as he tipped the bottle over and poured its contents into the ground. Once empty, he stepped back, and the siblings proceeded to stare down at the headstone in a brief silence.

"That's like five hundred dollars worth of wine."

"Yep."

—

As the siblings entered the condo, a short burst of laughter took them by surprise. They looked at each other, both wearing expressions of confusion as they tried to comprehend the sound, so foreign that it almost didn't seem real. Throughout the years of them living under the same roof, not once have they heard this kind of laughter, unforced and delighted. Then, another giggle, which turned their perplexed eyes towards the direction of the living room.

"Is that mom?" Sterling muttered, shrugging off his coat. Distracted, he moved to hang the coat but missed, the woollen garment falling to the floor in a black heap.

"Is she having a stroke?" she returned, eyebrows knitted together.

She walked ahead towards the living room, her brother in tow. Nearing, she could hear her mother's voice coming from the room, along with two other voices, both male and neither belonging to her father. She blinked in thought for a second before her eyes widened in horrified shock. Then quickening her steps, she burst through the doorway and confirmed her suspicions. There, the earl was enjoying a cup of tea on her parents' sofa, next to him, her mother, appearing to be amused by what Sebastian had said as he topped off her cup. They turned to look at her, but before they could utter so much as a word, she spoke.

"What are you doing here?"

"Darling." The earl set his teacup down on the coffee table and rose, making his way to her. "I thought I told you I'd be coming?"

Blanche felt her eye twitch at the term of endearment, but what she found more shocking was the way he spoke to her. He was pleasant, charming even—a stark difference from his normal aloofness. And while she has witnessed this side of him before, it had been directed to others, never herself. Nevertheless, this reminded her of their plan and the main reason he was in New York in the first place.

She gave a forced smile. "I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow evening."

" _Whaaat_?" Sterling whispered, the amusement in his voice. "I thought you said you guys weren't dating."

"I flew in early on business, and your mother invited me to stay."

"Stay?" she echoed, her voice slightly higher-pitched. "You mean here?"

"Blanche, don't look so shocked," her mother said, smoothing out her skirt as she rose to her feet. "Were you really going to let the poor boy stay at a hotel? You know how deceptively unclean they can be."

"Boy?" Ciel mumbled under his breath as a faint crease appeared between his brows.

Madeline Bennett, formerly Madeline Harris, was a formidable woman whose passing glance brought abject terror to every junior associate under her employ. Her eyes held the fiery confidence not unlike her late brother's, but while Carlisle's face had exuded an almost constant air of smug amusement, her mother's was cold and calculating, which likely attributed to how well preserved she was. She had a slim figure, her silvery hair cut into a power bob, and eyes an icy blue—a beauty despite her age.

Her mother was also what most would consider a germophobe.

"Mom," she stiffly greeted, her eyes flicking across the room before settling back on her mother. "Where's dad?"

"Your father is caught up at work, dear," she said. "He will be joining us at dinner."

Her mother smiled, but her eyes betraying her disapproval. The ticking of the grandfather clock could be heard from the hallway as the room was engulfed in an uncomfortable silence—a silence that was soon interrupted when Sterling loudly cleared his throat.

"Well, since almost everyone is here, why don't we pop open a bottle of white?" he suggested, smiling. "Mom? Shall we pick one out from the wine room?"

The woman looked at him, then broke out in a smile. "What an excellent idea."

Blanche watched as Sterling began to guide their mother out of the room, and as the siblings made eye contact, she mouthed a thank you. Once they were out of sight, she listened to the sounds of their footsteps and Madeline's voiced disapproval with how sunburnt Sterling had gotten. Once she could place them at the opposite side of the apartment, she turned her gaze to the earl, who had already been looking at her.

"You couldn't have declined?"

"And how would that look?" He raised an eyebrow. "Your boyfriend turning down an invitation from your parents."

"I'm not sure why it matters since we're suppose to be 'breaking up'"—she raised her hands and bent her fingers in air quotations—"this weekend."

"Believe me, Detective, this is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you," he said plainly. "Your mother didn't exactly leave any room for refusal. I don't think I need to tell you how persistent she is."

She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. "No," she sighed. "No, you don't."

Realizing how silent Sebastian was being, she turned to the butler and found his gaze not on her but towards the fireplace. She could've been imagining things, but she thought she detected the slightest hint of colour on his alabaster skin. Eyebrows knitted together, her eyes followed his to find a pair of unblinking amber orbs staring back at her—her mother's prized exotic shorthair. The cat lay perched atop the mantle, his orange tail swishing as it hung over the edge, radiating his usual aura of disdain.

"Good god, that thing's still alive?" she muttered under her breath.

"Such a magnificent creature," Sebastian breathed.

Blanche looked at him strangely and was about to make a comment when the jingling of keys sounded from the entrance of the home. She turned her attention towards the hallway, listening to the door opening and closing. Her brow furrowed but soon smoothed over as a familiar voice chimed from down the hall, followed by footsteps making their way towards the living room.

"Mrs. Bennett," an elderly woman called, her voice thick with a French accent. "Mrs. Bennett, I'm back from the post—" She reached the doorway and paused mid sentence, before a smile dawned on her aged features. " _Ma choupette_ ," she said affectionately.

"Marie," she greeted, approaching the woman with a soft smile.

As the nanny-turned-housekeeper pulled her into a warm embrace, Blanche couldn't help but feel nostalgic over her scent of lilies and tuberose, taking her back to a time when the woman would braid her hair and teach her nursery rhymes. Being prominent and career-focused lawyers, the Bennett couple rarely had time for their children, leaving Marie as their defacto parental figure.

"How are you, my dear?" the woman asked as she drew back to look at her.

Marie was a small, thin-framed woman with wire-rimmed glasses and hair that had once been golden but was now ashen from age. Her rounded face was lined with age, but eyes still twinkled with youthfulness.

"I'm well," she said. "And you?"

Marie's lips parted to speak before she stopped herself. Her eyes connected with something over Blanche's shoulder, then widened in a look that the detective could only describe as fear. The woman suddenly trembled and stumbled back, lifting a shaking finger and pointing at something behind Blanche, her free hand clutched at a petit gold cross hanging from her neck.

" _D-d-diable_!"

Worried, Blanche came forward and grasped the housekeeper by her upper arms. She glanced over her shoulder to where Marie had been pointing but was only met by the confused gazes of the earl and his butler. She turned back to her, a look of concern on her face as the woman grew more and more distraught, voice raising to the point of screaming.

"Marie!" Blanche exclaimed as the woman collapsed to the floor, and she dropped to her knees beside her. "Marie, what's wrong? What's wrong?"

In all her years of knowing her, Blanche had never seen Marie behave this way. The woman cowered in a heap and covered her face to escape whatever sight she was seeing. She could hear footsteps approaching the living room, likely her mother and brother coming to to investigate the commotion.

" _Diable_!"

—

Blanche leaned against the window frame and stared down at the busy street below, clutching her wine glass to her chest. Watching the roofs of cars pass by, she paid little attention to the polite conversation going on behind her, her mind remaining on Marie—Marie, who had retired to her bedroom to rest after her strange episode. She couldn't push the woman's terrified expression from her thoughts, nor the words the woman had repeated over and over again like a mantra.

" _Diable_ ," she whispered beneath her breath.

 _French for devil._

Turning her head, she peered over her shoulder at the earl. He listened to her mother talk about her work with a gracious smile on his lips, his one visible eye betraying his boredom. Surely she hadn't been referring to him, right? It had to be a strange coincidence. Nevertheless, she thought back to that incident at the charity ball and found herself considering the possibility that Neil Turner could be—no. That was crazy.

But considering the things she's has seen, was it really that crazy?

As if he could sense her staring, his gaze suddenly met with hers, and startled, she quickly looked away. Her heart started racing, and she mentally scolded herself for averting her eyes, which quite possibly made it more apparent that she had been staring. Clearing her throat, she quietly excused herself and made herself towards the doorway, her exit going unnoticed by her family members, but she could feel the earl following her with his stare. She entered the hallway and towards the kitchen for the purpose of getting a moment alone, but exhaled a sigh as she spotted Sebastian in the kitchen. Raising an eyebrow, she approached the island with her arm crossed over her chest, holding her glass in her other hand.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, with your housekeeper being unwell, I've taken the liberty to see to tonight's dinner preparations."

Her eyes fell to the counter where a rack of lamb sat in a roasting pan, the slender rib bones rising towards the ceiling like elegant white steeples. Upon seeing this, she exhaled a sigh.

"I was wondering where you disappeared to."

"And you, Detective?" Sebastian asked. "I would've expected you to be reacquainting yourself with your family."

She took a sip of her wine before saying in a hushed tone, "I'm hiding."

She climbed into one of the barstools across from him at the island, feeling strange as she watched him move about her parents' kitchen, measuring out some white vinegar into a small mixing bowl before whisking in a couple spoonfuls of sugar. His movements lacked the awkwardness that came from working in an unfamiliar cooking space, his uncanny grace making such trivial actions almost mesmerizing to watch. Every movement was precise, every motion was controlled, like he was a performer on stage and the world was his audience.

As he dropped a handful of chopped mint leaves into the mixture, she wondered offhandedly if a man of such poise, such meticulous preparation, could be capable of killing a man, or rather two. Sebastian had demonstrated himself as a meticulous man, and one who not only prepares well but has contingency plans for when things go awry—such qualities would certainly help in a murder. She quickly pushed the thought from her head.

Sebastian was a strange man, she can attest to that, but being strange doesn't mean guilty, and neither does his lack of a confirmed alibi. There are plenty of reasons why a person would be opposed to sharing their alibi to law enforcement…although, in her experience, those reasons were usually because the alibi in question also involved something illegal.

 _Oh god, what if his 'associate' was a prostitute?_ she thought, her upper lip unconsciously raised in disgust. _It certainly wouldn't be unheard of._

"Is something on your mind, Detective?" Sebastian asked, his eyes remaining on the task at hand.

"I…." She cleared her throat. "I was just thinking that in my twenty-seven years of being alive, I have never once seen my mother laugh the way she did," she smoothly lied. "You certainly have a way with people."

The sound of whisking ceased, and she tensed as he lifted his gaze to hers, garnet eyes looking at her as if knowing that wasn't all that was on her mind. Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she casually averted her gaze. A small sense of relief washed over her as the whisking resumed.

"Twenty-seven," he said. "That's quite young for a police detective. You must have a great deal of drive and determination."

Blanche's jaw tensed as she nodded dismissively. She saw from her peripheral vision that Sebastian had raised his head to look at her, and although she hadn't returned his gaze, she could feel his stare boring into her like a panther closing in on its prey. He knew he had struck a nerve. Aware of her own silence, she parted her lips to speak, but paused as he continued the meal prep. Another wash of relief swept over her.

"By the way, Detective," Sebastian began, giving the bowl a few more whisks before setting it aside. "I've been meaning to ask—are we expecting any more houseguests?"

Her brow furrowed at this, her gaze shifting back to him. "No," she said slowly, confused. "Why do you ask?"

"The family portrait in the sitting room," he replied. "Out of everyone in it, only one seems to be missing at this residence. I wondered if they would be arriving later but felt it best to ask so I may prepare the meals accordingly."

His words took a second to register in her brain, but once they had, she felt a queer pang of bitterness. He had an uncanny ability to send her flip-flopping between comfort and discomfort, content and discontent, tethering back and forth at such a frequency that often left her mentally drained by the end of their interactions.

She sighed and shook her head. "No, everyone that's suppose to be here is…here. The man you're referring to is my older brother, and he's no longer with us."

"My apologies, Detective…and my deepest condolences," Sebastian said, and although his expression was one of sympathy, there was a strange glint in his eye that caused a small pit to form in her stomach. "It's always a tragedy when you lose someone so young."

"Age doesn't really play a factor when it comes to murder." The words slipped from her tongue as she brought the glass to her lips, sipping her Chardonnay, which had since gone room temperature. "But there's no need to apologize, it happened some years ago."

"And yet, you're still angry." His boldness surprised her.

Blanche looked at him, grey eyes fierce and glistening. She didn't know if it was due to the stress from her already long day or how vulnerable she felt at that very moment, but his words prodded at something that compelled her to answer.

"When sadness turns to anger and anger turns to hate, and it is through that hate that drove me to be the person I am today…what would be left of me if I abandon it now?"

There was an almost mystic smile on his lips, and his eyes gleamed with an intensity that made her mouth go dry. She swallowed hard, every muscle in her body frozen as she waited for him to speak. It was then that his eyes shifted to the doorway, and turning to peer over her shoulder, she saw the earl standing there, glass in hand and sleeves rolled up in an uncharacteristically casual manner.

"Your mother is asking where you are," said Ciel, but despite speaking to her, his gaze was locked on his butler.

A strange kind of tension filled the room, one that Blanche was unsure of how to categorize. Nodding stiffly, she slid from the barstool and started towards the doorway, and as she joined the earl there, she cast one last glance at the butler. From the way he looked at his employer, she wondered if they were silently communicating with each other.


	18. The Wine Closet

"Stop fidgeting."

As she heard the harsh whisper, Blanche glanced over to the earl at her left, her hands pausing as they wrung at the napkin on her lap. She hadn't realized she had been doing it, and clearing her throat, she smoothed the fabric out and rested her hands on the edge of the table. She turned her focus back to her family, her brother recanting his most recent adventures while her parents listened with varied levels of disapproval. Occasionally, her mother would humour him with the odd comment or question, while her father did little to mask his disinterest, remaining silent with a vein pulsing in his neck. It was then that her father's gaze fell upon Blanche, to which she fought the urge to avert her eyes.

"And you, Blanche?" He arched a silvery brow. "Your mother and I have heard so little of you lately, I can only assume your superiors over at the Seattle P.D. have been running you ragged chasing the scum of the city," he said, his words laced with mocking contempt.

"Something like that," she responded almost coldly. Her jaw tensed as she underwent the scrutiny of his stare, which she returned with unblinking intensity.

"You should call more," he said as he lowered his gaze to the meal in front of him. "Seattle can't be _that_ crime ridden."

"You'd be surprised."

Nobody uttered a word as a heavy silence crept over the room, the only sound present being the scraping of cutlery against china. Minutes passed in this state, awkward and suffocating.

"Where on earth is that cat?" her mother then said, breaking the silence as she focuses her attention to the corner of the room where a small bowl of kibble remained untouched. "It's not like her to miss a meal."

"Strange, I haven't seen her since earlier in the afternoon," Sterling remarked.

The earl seemed to tense at this, an annoyed vein throbbing at the side of his temple. "How strange," he said through gritted teeth, forcing a polite smile. "Well, I'm sure she'll turn up. There aren't many places for a cat to go in a flat."

Blanche raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. Turning her attention away from him, she looked at her brother, who poured himself the last drops of wine. Upon seeing this, she stood, her abruptness causing all eyes to snap in her direction.

"Look at that, we're out of wine," she said, discarding her napkin on the edge of the table. "I'll go get more."

She made her way out of the the dining room before anyone could react, breathing a small sigh of relief as she entered into the hallway. She made her way towards the wine closet, which was revealed to be more of a room than a closet as she opened the door to a large space of wall-to-wall wine racks. A dim light automatically switched on as she stepped inside, and she began to browse through the shelves for something that might be suitable.

Sebastian's voice came from behind her, "Detective Bennett? What are you doing in here?"

She spun around to face the butler, who looked at her questioningly from the doorway. Before she could answer, he stepped into the room and strode towards her.

"Was the wine I selected not to your liking?"

"Oh, no, I was just…." She trailer off, swallowing hard as she found him drawing a bit too close for comfort.

"You were just?" He arched a brow.

"I was just…." She suddenly felt tongue tied and slightly flustered. The words were forming in her mind but refused to pass her lips.

He took a step forward, further closing the gap between them. He was close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath as he exhaled, his gracile stature towering over her with an almost commanding presence. She drew back but felt the wall press against her back. He brought a hand to her face, cool fingers grasping her chin and lifting it towards him.

"Stop," she whispered half-heartedly as his other hand found her waist and slowly, inexorably, he pulled her against him.

A chuckle laced his breath, and his head tipped close. "Is that truly what you want?" his voice purred into her ear, fingers ghosting along her spine as she was on the verge of saying yes.

Blanche failed to answer and another low chuckle escaped his throat, causing her cheeks to prickle with heat. She felt his lips outlining her jawline, shivering as his granite fingertips traced along the hollow of her throat. She brought her hands to his chest in objection, but as if having a mind of their own, her fingers curled around the material of his vest.

"Detective." The word rolled easily off of his velvet tongue, causing goosebumps to rise on the back of her neck. "You haven't answered me."

Her flush intensified, and she mentally cursed him, her pride galling her. He wanted her to spell it out for him, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. She barely wanted to admit it herself.

He ran his lips down her throat, and she unconsciously tipped her head back to give him better access. His teeth grazed her collarbone, making her suck in a quiet gasp. His scent filled her senses like an intoxicating drug, the combination of frankincense and amber sending her mind in a haze.

"Detective."

 _Damn him._

"Don't stop," she managed breathlessly while biting back the urge to finish her statement with an 'asshole.'

He glanced up at her through dark eyelashes, his garnet eyes reflecting the the lights from overhead, making them appear as if they were glowing. Her stomach flopped with a momentary dread. She gazed back at him as he stared at her intently, and just as her mind began to draw similarities between his intense stare and Jeremy's, his lips crashed into hers with an intensity that voided her mind of thought.

Her hand instinctively went to the back of his head, burying into the silky tresses. His lips were bruising as they pressed against her own, his tongue a violent intrusion between her lips. Her body arched towards his, unable to recall the last time someone had kissed her like this—or if anyone had ever kissed her like this.

Sebastian pulled her closer while pressing her further into the wall. He glided his hands along her sides, over her ribs, and mapping the dip of her waist. Her breath quickens like there isn't enough oxygen in the room, her grip on his hair tightening, eliciting a hum from him that sounded like a combination of a low growl and a purr. Hearing this, she slipped her other hand to the back of his neck, her fingertips navigating over the smooth skin for a moment before scraping her nails against it. He repeated the sound.

Abruptly, he pulled away, and she made a small noise of protest. His eyes drank up the sight of her as she stood there, kiss-bruised lips parted and chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. She felt vulnerable under the weight of his stare, like a rabbit cornered by a hungry fox.

A hand left her waist and reached to the shelf closest to them, his eyes never once leaving hers. He soon presented her with a bottle of wine, a sly smile painted on his lips.

"Caymus Vinyards Cabernet Sauvignon—the deep, fruity flavour and herbal undertones will provide a sophisticated balance for the lamb," he said as she stared down at the bottle in bewilderment. "I will see to the dessert now. Please excuse me."

Still in shock, she watched as he exited the room, leaving her alone and gripping the bottle tightly in her hands. A few seconds of silence passed as she processed what had just happened, her dazed expression soon turning to one of horror.

"What the hell did I just do?"


	19. What is Its Name?

Blanche stood under the steady stream of the shower, bracing both hands against the wall and leaning forward. She closed her eyes as the water pummelled her back and rinsed away the suds, appreciating the heat sluicing over her chilled skin after a brisk morning run.

She hadn't slept well the previous night, and what little sleep she did get was far from restful. There was too much running through her mind: the cases she left Marcus in charge of, her parents' banquet, Sebastian— _Sebastian._

 _She felt his lips outlining her jawline, shivering as his granite fingertips traced along the hollow of her throat. She brought her hands to his chest in objection, but as if having a mind of their own, her fingers curled around the material of his vest._

 _"Detective."_

Her eyes snapped open, and she shook the memory from her head. The kiss had blindsided her, coming from seemingly nowhere, and she had been wrestling with the subject in her head since it happened. Why did he kiss her? What prompted it?

And why did she kiss him back?

Blanche eventually shut off the water and exited the shower, drying herself off with a clean towel. Once she was dressed for the day, she started for the kitchen where she could hear the light clattering of pots and pans, as well as her brother's voice. Furrowing her eyebrows, she continued down the hallway, stopping just at the doorway to find Sebastian in the midst of breakfast preparation. Across from him, her brother and the earl were seated on the counter stools, talking over coffee.

"Well, good morning, Detective Bennett."

The butler's voice caused her to stiffen. His was the last face she wanted to see at that moment.

"Good morning," she said flatly.

Sterling rose and shifted one seat over. "I should let you two love birds sit together," he said teasingly. "We were just talking about you.

"Oh?"

She and the earl exchanged a look of acknowledgement, and swallowing her discomfort, she moved to sit between the two men. Her eyes locked with the butler's as he set a mug of coffee in front of her— _black_.

"All good things, I promise." Sterling grinned. "I was actually just about to ask if he wanted to come with us to see Miss Camille."

"Sure, why not?" Blanche mumbled, the dryness of her tone seemingly going unnoticed by her brother. She drew the mug to her lips and gingerly took a sip, the bitter taste coating her mouth. She managed not to grimace.

"Would you like some cream or sugar, Detective?"

She stiffened at the question. "No, thank you," she said, and although she wasn't looking at him, she was sure she could feel him smirking.

"Miss Camille?" Ciel raised an eyebrow. "Who's Miss Camille?"

"She's—"

"A con artist," she interjected before taking another sip of her coffee.

"Hey!" Her brother frowned. "You said you'd be open minded."

"I said I would go," she corrected.

Upon seeing his master's confusion, Sebastian started to speak. "I believe they're referring to the psychic medium, my lord."

"Psychic medium?" the earl echoed in confusion.

"Yes, exactly!" Sterling nodded. "I've had the appointment booked for months. She can predict the future, talk to the dead—she's suppose to be the best at what she does."

"You do realize it's all just smoke and mirrors, right?" she asked, setting the mug down on the coaster. "They're intentionally vague and make claims that could apply to anyone, then use your body language and facial cues to gauge whether they're on the right track."

"Cold readings," Ciel stated with a nod.

"Aw, don't tell me you're a sceptic too, Earl," Sterling said in playful protest. "God, you two really are perfect for each other."

The remark caught Blanche off guard, and she nearly choked on her coffee. She coughed slightly into the back of her hand, shooting her brother an unamused look.

"Perhaps so," Ciel said, his gaze lowering to his mug. "Or perhaps I simply don't understand the merit. What could the dead possibly have to say that the living are so interested in hearing?" He took a drink of his coffee before a wry hum escaped his throat, echoing against the ceramic walls of the mug. "As for predicting the future, I don't believe that one's future is set in stone. The paths we take are not always the same paths that are given to us from birth."

As he spoke, Blanche felt a chill. There was something about his tone that was strangely cold, and as she turned her gaze from the earl to Sebastian, she noticed a glint in the butler's eye.

Suddenly, Ciel's tone changed and through a pleasant smile, he said, "But it's more than likely skepticism. I've had my own experience with a fortune teller in the past, and the only thing they were able to tell me was my blood type."

—

"A brownstone in Harlem," Blanche mumbled as she ascended the front steps of the home, the earl and her brother following at her sides. She turned her head towards Ciel. "I guess it pays to be a clairvoyant." There was an air of sarcasm to her remark, and while he said nothing in turn, she could tell from the knit in his brow that he shared her scepticism.

"Shh. What if she hears you?"

"She's not a bat, Sterling," she said chidingly. " I promise you, she's not going to hear us through six inches of sandstone."

Sterling rang the doorbell, and they waited. Standing there, she felt a cold breath against her nape, and she looked over her shoulder to find no one there. Her gaze fell to the black rental car parked on the street, the tinted windows and cloudy skies obscuring Sebastian's form as he waited in the driver's seat. He was nothing but a silhouette, but she could tell he was watching her.

 _He ran his lips down her throat, and she unconsciously tipped her head back to give him better access. His teeth grazed her collarbone, making her suck in a quiet gasp._

Light footsteps could be heard approaching the door, and Blanche turned her attention back ahead as they were greeted by an elderly woman. She smiled at them, her face framed by shoulder length salt and pepper curls, and a pashmina wrapped around her shoulders. A string of vibrant multicoloured beads hung from her neck, and her thin wrists were adorn in an eclectic melange of bracelets. Despite her slightly eccentric clothing, she appeared quite normal and not at all like what she had imagined a 'psychic medium' would look like.

"You must be Sterling," she said, stepping aside to make room for them to enter. "Please come in."

Entering the home, Blanche could detect a strange odour permeating the air. It was earthy and herbaceous, with an almost skunky undertone. Her eyebrows furrowed, a bit distracted as they went through brief introductions, and as she shrugged off her coat, the woman seemed to notice her expression and chuckled.

"Not to worry, Detective. It's only sage."

Blanche blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The smell," she elaborated. "I was burning sage to cleanse my home, but the smell does often get mistaken for marijuana." She walked towards the next room, expecting them to follow.

"See? I told you she was the real deal," Sterling whispered as he hung his coat on the coatrack. "How else would she know you're a cop?" he asked before following the old women.

As they hung their coats, she and the earl exchanged a look of leeriness. Sterling had already been convinced of this woman's abilities, but having entered this encounter with a healthy dose of scepticism, it would take more than just that to sway them. As far as she was concerned, the woman hadn't said anything that couldn't be dug up from a quick google search.

The next room had a small round table positioned at the centre, to which Blanche was almost surprised by the absence of a crystal ball. Sterling was already seated across from the woman, an eager smile on his face as she began the reading. Blanche crossed her arms and remained standing, not wanting to interrupt them, the earl standing next to her in observation.

"I can see you're a traveler."

Blanche nearly scoffed at this statement. It was the middle of December and Sterling's skin had been burnt into a deep copper red—not to mention the Saint Christopher medal that hung from his neck. It didn't take clairvoyance to tell anyone that her brother had been overseas.

Sterling marvelled for a moment before the woman continued, and as Blanche had expected, the supposed medium was vague. She spoke of his career and how he would find success in it, however, not to the same capacity as their parents; she mentioned how Sterling would eventually meet his 'soulmate', the very word eliciting a faint hum of amusement from the earl.

Blanche glanced over at Ciel with a thin-lipped smirk. Her sentiments exactly.

The woman seemed oblivious to their exchange as she delivered the reading, each statement met with her brother's wonderment. A few times, her eyes flicked to Blanche, looking distracted and concerned. After a short while of this, she suddenly paused mid sentence.

"A presence has attached itself to you," she announced, her gaze now fixed solely on Blanche as she rose from her seat. This caused her brother to look at her in confusion.

"A presence?" Blanche asked, shifting uncomfortably as she felt everyone's attention shift to her. "What is that suppose to mean?" She forced an awkward smile, unsure of how to respond to the situation.

Usually when people made such outrageous statements to her, it was due to mental illness or drugs, and she was arresting them.

"Like a ghost?" Sterling asked excitedly.

"No." The woman shook her head, slowly making her way towards Blanche. "Something inhuman. Something dark."

"Like the devil?" The words slipped her mouth in a nervous chuckle.

"Not the devil," Miss Camille answered grimly. She was staring at her, but it looked as though she was staring right through her. "Something is attaching itself to you—something evil—something deeply sinister." Her brows knitted together, and she reached a hand towards her. "What is its name?" she muttered under her breath, seemingly more to herself.

Blanche instinctively took a step back from the woman, and it was then that she felt a small weight on her shoulder. She glanced down to see Ciel's long, steepled fingers resting on her shoulder, his black nails contrasting against his milky skin.

"That's enough," Ciel said in an almost commanding tone, and as the woman's eyes fixed on him, it was her turn to step back. "Sterling, we'll be waiting in the car." His hand moved from Blanche's shoulder to firmly take hold of her hand, and before her brother could so much as utter a response, he pulled her towards the front entrance—much to her relief.

"You need to figure out its name," the woman called as they hurriedly grabbed their coats. "The only way to get rid of it is with its name!"


End file.
